


Meet Cute

by AlwaysClara



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, age gap, explicit for later chapters, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-07-13 01:02:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 50,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7131743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysClara/pseuds/AlwaysClara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara Oswald recently moved to London from Blackpool, running away from events she fears she won't be able to get far enough away from.  She befriends Amy who has a friend named The Doctor, a college professor who is much older than Clara and has vowed to never fall in love again.</p>
<p>Amy hatches a plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Amy and Rory were due to meet John Smith in 30 minutes, and Amy had not yet told Rory that their new friend Clara Oswald would be joining them. She knew Rory would wonder why she asked both the Doctor (as John Smith liked to be called) and Clara to dinner at the same time, especially since they were going to a restaurant in a posh neighborhood in London that had just enough of a romantic atmosphere for any couple of two's or four's to be construed as being there together on a date.  


She had thought she would keep the secret to herself until all parties arrived at the restaurant but now that they were nearly ready and Rory was calling a cab to pick them up she became nervous that he would wonder why she felt the need to keep it secret and, upon realizing why she kept it secret, say something embarrassing like, "Oh, fancy us all bumping into one another," to begin the evening on an awkward note. Although now she thought of it, not having told the Doctor or Clara that there would be a fourth for dinner would be awkward in itself...So she decided that she would tell Rory as soon as they got into the cab. Just enough time for him to get used to the situation but not enough time for her to go into in-depth explanation of her reasons.  


He was bemused when she told him, but having been married to Amy for four years now he had at least become used to being surprised by her. He hadn't immediately guessed her intentions. The Doctor, while a very amiable and at times funny man, was a once-divorced man in his late fifties. Clara was a charming woman of 29. So he looked at Amy in confusion for several minutes while she feigned looking out the window at the people walking to the theater in the West End, until Rory's silence prompted her to look at him, and with exasperation say, "I hope you won't be wearing that confused look all night. It looks like your constipated."  


"Did you at least tell the Doctor that there would be another person joining us?"  


"Uh....no."  


"And why is that?"  


"Well, you know the Doctor is very shy and doesn't like to be around people he isn't familiar with."  


"Yes, the very reason why you should have told him that there would be someone he doesn't know coming to dinner with us."  


"I was too afraid he wouldn't want to come. He never comes to any of the dinners or pub meet ups the university has throughout the year -- not even the Christmas party. And this is with people that he knows more or less. I thought if I told him a person he's never met -- a young woman at that -- was joining us for dinner, he would bale, and I feel it is time that he was forced to meet other people because it's been three years now since he's been divorced, and he hasn't had one date in all that time."  


"So, you're setting him up on a date?" Seeing they were now one block from the restaurant, Amy said, "Not exactly. But if he has a nice evening with a vibrant, intelligent woman, in the safety of his two friends with whom he feels comfortable, then maybe he will feel encouraged to start meeting new people on his own." Rory lifted an incredulous eyebrow at her just as the cab stopped, and Amy smiled at Rory while saying, "Oh, look, we're here." 

♥♥ 

Prompt as ever, the Doctor was already at the restaurant when Amy and Rory arrived. He was sitting at the bar, a whiskey sour in hand, swirling the drink so that the two cherries danced across the top. The Doctor had had a boring day of meetings and was vacillating between looking forward to a night spent with his two friends and wishing he was at home, sipping a cup of tea, reading Henry James. He knew it was best that he was going out tonight. Although Henry James was a lot more comforting than being in a busy restaurant on a Friday night, he knew that he had been more reclusive than ever lately, and some socialising was good for his psyche.  


The Doctor gave Amy two kisses, one on both cheeks, and offered Rory a nod before being escorted to their table.  


"Amy, you look radiant tonight," he said once they sat to which Rory responded, "Guilty, more like." Amy kicked him under the table.  


"What's that," the Doctor asked, not hearing him as the restaurant was now full of people.  


"I said Amy looks...uh...gutted."  


"Gutted, why?"  


"Ah...well...the store didn't have the color paint she wanted for the dining room, so she had to pick something else."  


"Oh, yes, how is the new house coming along?" the doctor inquired.  


Amy, who _had_ been very gutted when they hadn't the color paint she wanted for that room, smiled at Rory with just a bit of envy for recovering himself, and responded to the doctor. "Very good. We just have the dining room to paint. We're having an open house in two weeks. You're of course invited."  


"I will check my schedule," he said, taking one of the cherries between his teeth, pulling it from the stem, then taking a large sip of his drink.  


Amy was at this point worrying about Clara's whereabouts. She expected she would be on time and glancing at her phone she noticed that she hadn't texted. She had been hoping to introduce the Doctor to Clara before they sat down to dinner so as to obviate some of the awkwardness. Rory was looking at Amy with a desperate expression.  


"So, Amy, is there something you wish to tell the Doctor?" Hearing this, the Doctor's already very emotive left eye brow raised dramatically.  


"No, not really, that I can think of." At this point the waitress appeared and asked for their drink order, but Rory looked like an overheated chicken and Amy knew he would just blurt it out if she didn't say something right then so as soon as the waitress left she looked at the Doctor, and said very quickly, "There's another person coming to dinner, her names Clara Oswald, she's really nice, Rory and I met her at this cafe we often go to on Sundays, she's from Blackpool, just moved to London, and incidentally she really likes literature, which you teach, so I thought it would be nice for her to meet you, but I didn't tell you because I thought you wouldn't come if you knew someone you don't know was going to be here too." She took a deep breath.  


Rory looked at the Doctor expectantly, Amy looked at everything but the Doctor or Rory, and the Doctor, once processing this, drank back the rest of his drink, put it on the table, and rose.  


"Where are you going?" she asked.  


"Home. I don't even care that you invited someone else to have dinner with us but you kept it from me. You betrayed my trust." He gathered his coat.  


"OK, answer me this," Amy replied, rising as well from her seat, ready for battle, "would you have come -- truthfully would you have come -- if I had told you that I invited someone else to this dinner, or would you have made an excuse not to come, like you have every other time I've suggested you join us for drinks or dinner with other people?"  


Amy would never receive a reply, because just then the infamous fourth party arrived. Clara Oswald fumbled into the restaurant, out of breath, her hair what she would consider completely disheveled but really was only a little wind swept, and was currently frantically searching for Amy's vibrant red hair among the crush of people. She saw her standing at a table far across the room, waved and began walking toward her.  


The Doctor had noticed Clara's sudden and inelegant entrance from the corner of his eye. The strands of loose hair from her bun that caught in the wind that swept through the door along with her, her petite frame in a dark blue skirt with black stockings, and her searching eyes momentarily distracted him from his heated thoughts, even though she was clear across the room from them. He recovered his equilibrium and was to continue his discussion when he saw Amy wave back to her. He grew slightly panicky when he realized that the girl across the room, and now walking toward them, was Clara Oswald and that this meant there was now no escape. The Doctor glared at Amy as if to say "this discussion is not over."  


Clara didn't see the Doctor until she was halfway across the room. Initially she thought he was their waiter, but he wasn't in uniform like the other waiters, and Amy was looking at him intently like she knew him.  


"Hello," Clara said nervously as she reached the table. The mysterious man with the dark eyes focused on his empty drink but Amy and Rory both said greetings. "I'm so sorry I'm late. The Piccadilly line was running late and then I couldn't get on the first train because there were so many people in front of me." Clara looked from Amy, to Rory, and then back to the mysterious man.  


"That all right," Amy said. "You're here now. I neglected to mention but we also invited our friend John Smith, Doctor John Smith, who I work with at the university to join us this evening -- "  


"Neglected to mention..." the Doctor murmured.  


"---I hope you don't mind," Amy finished.  


"Not at all," Clara cheerily replied. "The more the merrier," she laughed, hoping to dispel the tension that was beginning to overwhelm her. As if to further this endeavour, Clara held out her hand to the mysterious brooding figure -- this Doctor John Smith -- and said, "I'm Clara Oswald. It's very nice to meet you." At this the Doctor finally looked at her, and seeing her gesture, he put his hand into her very small one, squeezing it firmly, and receiving, surprised, a firm shake in reply. He cleared his throat and still without releasing his hand from hers replied, "Doctor Smith, but most people just call me The Doctor."  


"Okay, then," Clara smirked, and seeing his eyes darken further she said the only thing she could think of -- "I could really use a drink."  


"Do you drink often?" the Doctor asked, looking into her eyes, so much larger now that she wasn't across the room  


"Well, I drink water throughout the day, and then tea for lunch, then sometimes a chamomile tea before bed to help me sleep." Clara smiled at him, knowing full what he was asking. "But as for alcoholic drinks, only occasionally." All the while the Doctor was still entirely enveloping her hand with his own.  


"Sorry," the Doctor said, shaking his head, and releasing his hand from hers. He couldn't think why he forgot to release his hand from hers. It must be a nervous reaction to the situation. He did suddenly feel like a young boy on his first date. Although this wasn't at all a date, he thought as all three of them sat and the waitress came to take Clara's drink order. Certainly Amy couldn't expect this to be a date. She couldn't be older than 30, maybe even in her early twenties. He was always bad at telling ages, but he was certain that she was much too young for him. Her father must be around his age. But then why did Amy go through so much trouble to lie to him -- why did she sacrifice their friendship just so he'd attend dinner with a young woman who could not even have any interest in anything he'd say. True, Amy was in her twenties, and he considered Amy (and now Rory) good friends, but his friendship with Amy had developed over many years of being her colleague.  


Clara all the while wondered what the Doctor and Amy were so heatedly discussing before she arrived, and why Amy didn't tell her that he would be with them for dinner. It was all very strange, and frankly after a day on her feet waiting tables at the cafe, she was mentally and physically beat. She was looking forward to tea and a good book when she got home.  


The meal ran smoothly, all things considered. Amy did most of the talking -- discussing the new house, her job at the university, and how she met the Doctor 5 years before when she arrived from Scotland for a job as professor in the theater department. An hour passed quickly, they were soon to leave, and the Doctor became very ashamed of himself for caring so much that Amy had invited Clara. She was a perfectly amiable dinner guest, who listened intently to everything Amy and Rory said, smiling all the while, and asking questions throughout. She rarely looked at the Doctor sitting beside her, except the few instances where Amy mentioned her first days at the university when he had graciously showed her around campus after Amy stopped him to ask where the refectory was. He took her there and they ended up having lunch with one another.  


"After that we regularly saw each other in meetings and on campus. We talked about Scotland a lot." 

"Have you been back since you moved here?" Clara asked Amy whilst paying her half of the cheque.  


"Rory and I went last year. It was the first time I've been back. My family have come to visit me many times. London is more glamorous than the small town I grew up in."  


"How about you?" Clara addressed the Doctor. "Have you been back?"  


The Doctor had been thanking his stars that he had been able to get through the evening without divulging any information about himself. He was just then ruminating on what Beethoven he would play while reading. He was almost home free, one could say. "Many times, but my parents are now deceased, and I never had any siblings."  


"Oh, I'm sorry."  


"Thank you but I'm not exactly young, so I suppose it is to be expected. Are we all ready to go, then?" The Doctor rose, put on his dark blue coat, and started doing up the buttons.  


"I suppose so," Clara remarked dryly.  


"Clara, how are you getting home? Rory and I took a cab, so we can't drive you," Amy asked, as she too rose to put on her jacket."

"Oh, that's all right, I'll take the tube."  


"At 10:00 at night? That doesn't sound safe. Does it, Rory?" Rory, who knew Clara often took the tube home when they met for dinner in London, looked at Amy, whose eyes were as large as saucers, and replied, "No, it doesn't?"  


"Exactly. London is not as rough as, say, New York, but it's still a major city. There's no telling who you may run into."  


The Doctor, growing impatient, asked, "Can't you all share a cab?"  


"We could, but we live in the south of London and Clara lives in the north, in Camden Town. You know Camden Town, Doctor. You can drive Clara home."  


"Me?"  


"It's fine. I take the tube home all the time," Clara remarked, gathering her purse.  


Walking round the table, the Doctor remarked, "See, Amy, she does it all the time. And you probably live right near a tube station, right?" he addressed Clara.  


"Well, no, but it's only 10 minutes from there." The Doctor stopped walking.  


"in Camden Town?"  


"Yeah, but I've lived there for a while now; nothing's ever happened to me. I've walked home at night many times."  


"What about the time that guy walked behind you the whole way home?" Amy pointed out, actually pointing her finger at her.  


"Yeah, but nothing happened. He was just going my way."  


"What if he had been following you with intent on doing something bad. You said no one else was around."  


The Doctor audibly sighed. "Why don't I drive you all home?"  


"Oh, no, we're not going to have you driving all around London for us after we are the ones that invited you to dinner. Besides, I've already summoned a cab on my phone. It will be here in," at this Amy looked at the phone in her hand, "2 minutes," and she held it up for them to see the map with a tiny black cab moving toward their restaurant, her reservation displayed on the right. Amy looked at Clara. "I told the Doctor that you are an avid reader, so you two can talk about literature during your drive." Amy smiled, approached the Doctor, and kissed his cheek. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Swan Lake Finale (music) ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V2u-QOOzqBM)

"I'm sorry you have to drive me home." Clara was seated in the Doctors car viewing the bright lights of the theater marquees out the window, appearing even brighter and more impressive against the pure black of the cloudy February night sky.

"No, it's fine. Amy is right; it's not best to be walking alone around north London at night. I couldn't let you take the tube home when I can drive you safely to your front door." 

So surprised was she by this kind response from him that she turned her gaze from the entertaining display of people enjoying their Friday evening toward him. "Thank you very much." 

It was then she realized that the classical piece that had been playing softly through the speakers since he had started the car was Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, a piece of music and a ballet she had always loved. She recognized the beginning of the Finale, the scene where the White Swan is torn away from her lover by her evil captor, a very dramatic and beautiful piece of music that even before she saw the ballet she always felt such emotion when hearing. 

"Do you like Swan Lake?" Clara asked. "It is one of my favorite pieces."

"Mine as well." He turned the volume dial up. The music crecendoed; the White Swan jumped to her death, her lover, unable to live without her, following her, her evil captor vanquished as a result of their actions. They listened to the heartrending music in silence. Clara began to develop tears in her eyes. She turned her gaze back to the window so the Doctor wouldn't see the few that had escaped. At one point near the very end of the piece he turned to her, saw the wetness on her right cheek, and quickly turning his gaze back to the now quiet residential London street he was driving down wondered how someone so young could be so affected by this music. 

Clara saw him looking ahead so she hurriedly brushed the tears from her cheeks. The record ended. There was for the first time complete silence in the car, unnerving after the powerful music. Two minutes passed as the Doctor looked straight ahead, not speaking. Clara turned to look at him several times, though she tried not to stare at him for too long so he wouldn't notice her pointed gaze. She didn't get a good look at him in the restaurant as he was sitting next to her and he was so disinclined to talk that she didn't have a reason to look in his direction. He was older, fifties she surmised, but what, she thought, one would call distinguished. His hair, in various stages of greying, had a hint of black in the back, so far as she could tell with only the intermittent street lights illuminating his features. A few pieces of hair in the front swooped up into a perfect curl that unaccountably she wished she could run her hand through. This thought precipitated her first glance away from him. 

She could not keep her gaze away from him for long before she turned her head again, for only a few seconds, just to survey his face: there were lines denoting his age; his eyebrows perfectly sculpted high on his brow but slightly unkempt, seemingly threatening. Certainly stormy looking in the restaurant when she first appeared. But his eyes (this her third glance at him) appeared as if they were soft, yielding, safe. Perhaps tender? She wanted to know if they could be tender. 

Embarrassed, she looked away for the third time. _The music made me emotional, that is why I am curious about whether this mysterious man's eyes are tender._ His voice broke through her thoughts:

"Is it this street I turn down?" She looked but could not recognize the street they were on. "I'll turn on the GPS." She nodded at him. His voice. She had been so intent on what she could see that she forgot his voice. The few instances when he had spoken in the restaurant she had noted his Scottish lilt, but it had been too noisy to register properly. Now in the silence his voice came across clear. It was so full, rough but soft at once. She wanted to hear it again, but couldn't think of anything to ask him, and she now recognized where they were, only a block from her apartment. 

She remembered what Amy told her before they left the restaurant. "We never did talk about literature." 

"Ah, yes," he said slowly with a deep burr, dragging out the 's' a bit longer. That voice, just two words; how could two innocuous words sound so enticing? 

The GPS informed them they had reached their destination. He pulled into an empty space. Clara knew she had to go. There was no other reason to stay in the car.

Would she see him again? He didn't seem inclined to see her again; he didn't want to see her to begin with; he had been pretty rude most of the night, actually. So why did she want to see him again? She wanted to stay and make him talk to her, but she knew he would think her crazy for doing so. She had to say good night and leave him. 

"Thank you for the drive home. I hope tonight wasn't too unenjoyable for you." 

He gave a half-hearted quick smirk. "No, it was all right. I hope you have a good rest of your evening." 

"You too." She smiled back at him, removed her seat belt, opened the door, and exited the car. She watched him pull away and, whether prompted by the emotions she felt listening to Swan Lake or her own loneliness, she felt an overwhelming sadness envelop her.

♥♥ 

The Doctor pulled away from Clara. What a strange evening. He still needed to speak with Amy and find out what she was playing at. OK, yes, he did need some more socializing in his life and had been thinking by the end of the evening that dinner with this young woman, Clara Oswald, wasn't the horrible occurrence he believed it would be, but why the insistence that he drive her home? It was as if Amy wanted to get him alone with her. He would have perfectly understood her intentions if the woman in question was nearer his age, but Amy could not possibly imagine that he would fancy a woman half his age. What could they possibly have in common? Mind you, she did react rather emotionally to the Tchaikovsky piece. Just the fact that she knew what the piece was surprised him. The tears on her face moved him more than he would like to admit. He removed his gaze from her so quickly because he had felt the overwhelming need to wipe the tears away with his hand. Perhaps he would have done so if he hadn't looked away. He was almost home. Henry James, Beethoven and a cup of tea would, he vowed, distract him from thinking about Clara's tear stained cheeks.

Clara also wondered why Amy was so insistent on him driving her home when she had many times at night taken the tube. Amy knew she had mace and that she always kept her cell phone in her hand, 999 on speed dial, in case anything untoward occurred. She didn't think Amy was so simple as to believe that she would want to talk about literature with him. There were many people with whom one could talk literature, whether they taught it or not. Surely the case could not be that she was setting her up with him, given how much older he was than her. He had to be over 20 years older than her. That does not immediately spring to mind an ideal match. And then he was so unlike her in personality, distant, moody, downright rude at times. She could have her own moments of depression but on the whole Clara considered herself a pretty outgoing, pleasant person. 

He did, however, like Swan Lake. She wished she had asked him what other classical pieces he liked. She wished she had asked him so many things. Making herself a cup of tea she mentally flogged herself for not coming up with things to ask him in the car. Because she was curious about him. Despite being moody and taciturn throughout dinner he was pleasant enough in the car. He even seemed relaxed. She wondered if his behaviour in the restaurant was an anomaly. Working as a waitress she met many different kinds of people. Sometimes when it was slow she would watch the couples and people sitting alone and try to note from their visage what kind of person they were. She usually came to a conclusion within minutes based on whether they laughed or smiled or had a furrowed brow but with the Doctor she thought, sipping her tea and reaching for the biscuit tin, she did not come to such simple suppositions. It seemed to her that he could be so many things at once. She wanted to see his face again; for reasons she could not understand, she wanted desperately to understand what kind of person he really was. 

♥♥ 

The Doctor was sitting in his office reading student essays after teaching two classes that Monday morning when a knock sounded on his door.

"Enter." 

Still looking at his essays, the Doctor heard an excited voice ask: "So, what happened after we left you Friday night?" 

He inwardly groaned. He had hoped Amy would steer clear of him for the week, given how mad he was at her Friday evening, but he knew better than to think she was one to shy away. 

"What happened with what?" 

"No, no, no, don't be invasive with me. Spill the beans." 

"There are no beans to spill," the Doctor said, finally look up at Amy's beaming face. "I drove Clara home."

"You didn't talk about anything?"

"At one point I asked her what street we were on." Amy rolled her eyes and emitted a sound of exasperation. She sat down in the chair opposite him. "Did you expect something to happen?"

"I thought you'd at least have a more stimulating conversation than what direction to drive in." The Doctor gave her a pointed look, stone cold. 

"You are still mad at me, then?"

"I am not furious with you, but I hope this is something you don't intend on doing again: lying to me. I don't consider liars my friends."

"Understandable." Amy grew serious. "You know I value our friendship. You were so supportive of me when I first moved here, a young woman, first time on her own, away from her family and friends, in an unfamiliar large city. I will always be grateful for that."

"And yet you sacrificed that." 

"Yes, I did. I know how kind and good you are, and I hate that you don't have more people in your life to care for and be cared by. I don't want you to be alone. You have so much to give." 

The Doctor was touched by her sentiment, but "that's all well and good, and I know you mean well, but what is me having dinner with and driving home a girl in her twenties got to do with it?" Amy did not have a ready reply. "I mean, what could she want with me? What could I want with her for that matter?" Amy tried to supress a cheeky grin. 

"What is that? Don't look at me like that. I don't like at all what you are thinking. Get that thought out of your head right now." Amy laughed heartily. 

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," but she was still chuckily lightly.

"Amy," he shook his head.

"I know, Doctor. You are a very good, pure man -- or so you like to think." 

"Think?"

"Well, we all have a bit of naughtiness in us."

"I am not about to cavort with some girl the same age as my students."

"She is 29 actually, so older than your grad students."

"29 is still much younger than me."

"I know. But I'm afraid I don't know many people your age, and Clara just moved here three months ago from Blackpool. She doesn't know anyone beside Rory and myself, and her flat mate Journey. She waitresses at the cafe we go to on the weekends. I started chatting with her one day because I noticed a copy of Pride and Prejudice in her apron. We did a production of that here last year, so I asked if she wanted to come over and see the taped version of it. Mostly just an excuse to have some wine and talk about boys. She's really sweet and funny and smart. And yes I know she's younger than you, but I thought you had a lot in common, and I don't know, you know me, one thought led to another, and next thing I know I'm panicking because I hadn't told you that I invited her to dinner with us. I am sorry about that, and I promise I won't do it again. But know that I did it because I care about you. Can I be forgiven?" Amy put on her best angelic guise. 

"Yes, of course. You know I can't stay mad at you for long."

"I know, because you are a good man."

"I'm not entirely sure about that, but I'll take your word for it." 

Amy rose to leave, but turned to him upon reaching the door, and no longer looking quite as angelic, remarked, "She works at The Rose Cafe on the South Bank, right next to the festival hall." 

"Amy," he scolded, but she had already run out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, unseasonably warm for February, and Clara was working. Her shift finished in an hour and if the weather held up she was going to take a walk along the South Bank to the Globe theater then across Millennium Bridge to St. Paul's Cathedral. She took this walk many times, but it never failed to interest her. She was falling in love with London. Yes, the weather was rainy and cold most of the time and the tourists, especially where she worked, crowded every available space, but the great thing about a city like London is that for every over-crowded street there was a quiet, spacious park to get lost in. Like a small child, she was excitingly anticipating what the parks would look like in the coming months as the flowers and trees started to bloom. This was her first time in London and she could not wait to see its transformation in Spring.

Clara had been busy all morning. She had not one break since the time she arrived. Some weekend mornings she thought she couldn't face working at the cafe that day as the weekends were always busier than the week days, and she never had more than a few minutes break at a time. It was now 2.00 and most people were at the restaurants surrounding The Rose Cafe eating panini's and salads rather than the tea, bake goods, and scones they offered. She picked up the book that fell out of her apron when she had taken it off to put it on a shelf behind the counter with the tea satchels.

"I'll be back in 15," she yelled to her boss Rose. With her book in hand she walked out into the bright sunshine and to the railing separating her from the river Thames below. Across the way was Big Ben and Westminster Bridge; a few boats on the river, even in February, now that it had been warm enough the last few days to thaw the ice that hitherto surrounded it. All around were street performers, tourists, and families out to enjoy the weather. She looked at the scene before her, savouring it, and then opened her book to read.

Not more than 5 minutes into her reading she heard a voice quite near her: "Is that a good book?" She looked up and saw him, her heart speeding up before visually matching a face to his voice. For she recognized that voice even before he had finished his short question. She nodded at him and responded, "I just started it but I'm enjoying it."

"I haven't read OUT OF AFRICA in years." The Doctor walked to the railing, leaned his right elbow against it, and looked out over the river.

"I saw the movie for the first time recently, but even given what little I've read of the book I wish I had read it first before seeing the movie. Movies take such liberties with non-fiction works."

"Yes, they often do." He looked at her. He had on glasses today, dark frames, and his grey hair was more unkempt, probably as a result of being outside where there was currently a light breeze. He was wearing a light grey t-shirt, a blue cardigan, unbuttoned, and form-fitting dark grey slacks.

Still looking at her, he said, "it is a beautiful day out."

"This is the first time I've had to enjoy it. I have been working all morning, over there," she pointed. "That's where I work. I'm a waitress." She said this last part a bit softly. "But I write a lot, short stories mostly. I always wanted to be a writer."

"That's wonderful. If you ever want me to read anything you've written, give you any feedback, I'd be more than happy to. I spent some time as an editor while working myself through grad school. Of course, that was a long time ago now." He smiled at her. This was the first time she saw his smile; it was more lovely than she imagined. It lit up his eyes with warmth, these same eyes that in the night days before she had thought looked kind, and now in the light of day she realized held even more possibilities she could only hope to fully experience. She did not think he would care to see her again, and the realization that now he was here, before her, made her giddy, prompting her to return his smile with an even bigger one -- until she remembered that she was due back to work in just a few minutes.

"I have to go back to work." 

"Oh."

Was that disappointment in his voice? "But I'm done in 40 minutes...if after you wanted to talk more."

"Uh, yeah, why not. Do you mind if I stay in the cafe until you're done? I had actually gone out for a coffee."

This was at least partly true. He had wanted a coffee after spending the morning grading essays. He could have made it at his apartment like he had the cup he was still nursing but one should not waste this unusually beautiful day by sitting in doors all day, he argued to himself. There was a place not 5 minutes walking distance from where he lived, but 5 minutes was too short a time to enjoy the day. Why should he not take a 25 minute walk to the South Bank? He had nothing else to do besides grade papers, and yes they were stacked in threes on his desk, but he had all weekend to grade them, even if yesterday he had determined that it would take most of Saturday and Sunday to get through them all.

They walked back to to the cafe together and she took his coffee order. He sat in a bar stool, resting his coffee on an elongated table near the window. He didn't want to make her nervous by staring at her while she worked. He sipped his coffee but did not taste it. He would be talking to Clara against shortly. He painfully realized that he could not think of one interesting topic to share with her. When he passed the cafe earlier, and not seeing her inside it, a part of him was relieved. It was many years since he had to make idle chit chat with a stranger that he wasn't sure how to go about it. Then, upon lifting his eyes away from the cafe, he saw her, intent on reading a book while others around her walked or took pictures, his relief turned to elation. Having now seen her in person, he was more excited at the prospect of being in her presence than he was worried about what he may fail to say to her.

"Would you like to read my book until I'm done?" Clara asked. He was so lost in his thoughts he hadn't noticed her beside him.

"Yes, thank you." He took the book from her, his fingers slightly grazing her own. At least now he would have something to distract him for the remaining thirty minutes. He began reading, vowing that he would not think any more about his impending conversation with her. The minutes until she would be done with her shift went by quickly this way.

>   
>  "At times, life on the farm was very lonely, and in the stillness of the evenings when the minutes dripped from the clock, life seemed to be dripping out of you with them, just for want of white people to talk to. But all the time I felt the silent overshadowed existence of the Natives running parallel with my own, on a different plane. Echoes went from one to the other..." 

"Are you enjoying the book?" Clara was beside him again.

"Yes, I was, until you interrupted me."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, aghast. 

"No, no, I'm sorry, dear, I was just joking," he said, closing the book. "A bad joke, it turns out."

She attempted to bite back a smile after hearing him call her 'dear'. "Maybe not the best, but I give you points for trying." 

"That is very gracious of you."

"I'm done now. I was wondering if you wanted to take a walk. I was already planning to walk to the Globe and across Millennium Bridge to St. Paul's, unless you are all walked out today."

"I have not nearly reached my walking limit."

"Then, shall we?" she motioned with her hand to the door. He opened it for her to walk through. It was still sunny, not a cloud in the sky. They walked past the street performers, the teenage skate boarders, and the statue of Laurence Olivier in front of the National Theatre.

"How has London been treating you?" He asked her, hands in his pockets while they walked.

"Very well. It is a bit daunting, and different after Blackpool, but I feel there are so many possibilities here. I love that one minute you are walking on Oxford Street with the people jostling to and fro in through the shops selling expensive perfumes and beautiful dresses, then the next moment you are walking up Baker Street to Regents Park where all is serene with a natural beauty that doesn't need to be bought in order to enjoy. I've never lived anywhere that allows you to experience such a dichotomous view of life."

"That is very correct and beautifully put...which is my slightly patronising way of saying that I agree with you."

"I will accept your agreement, however patronizingly given." She threw him a dazzling smile that he wished had not ended so quickly. For a second he thought that he would never tire of seeing her smile which in the next second he pragmatically discredited as sentimental, such a thing that a boy might think about the first girl he'd ever fancied. He mentally chastised himself for entertaining such a plebeian thought.

They were walking toward a narrow passage way leading to the Globe. He momentarily placed his hand on the small of her back so as to guide her in front of him as they could not fit in the space side by side. She visibly shivered at his touch. She knew he must have felt it and hoped he'd attribute it to the drop in temperature in the enclosed passage. They were the only two present, and as it was not well lit, he was walking behind her rather close so as to make out his way, and she recognised his unique scent, now imbued for her with the feeling of longing she had experienced when she had last been near him, listening to the Tchaikovsky piece that had made her weep. She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, savouring its sweetness and the wash of emotions it elicited. She was so overcome that her pace slowed causing the Doctor to collide into her with enough force for her to stumble forward. She surely would have fallen, so unaware of herself was she, had he not instinctively wrapped his right arm around her waist and pulled her against him. With a quick intake of breath she turned round to face him, placing her hands on his chest. She looked up at him but could not make out his face in the darkness.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice gruff. She nodded but then realized he probably couldn't see it, so said, in a voice sounding many years younger than her age, "Yes, thank you, for catching me."

"Shall we continue walking?" She could feel his breath along her temple. She did not feel that when he last spoke. Could it be that he had moved closer?

"Yes, we should."

He hoped she would move first, because he believed he was incapable of it. This had been so sudden, unplanned, and now he was not sure he could let her go. He was holding her clear against him, her arms against his chest. She was so close to him. His brain was telling him to move his arm from her and yet he could feel himself moving toward her. His lips could now almost graze her forehead. She could hear his heart beating, so loud it sounded like there was more than one. She knew she had to move, but it felt so pleasurable to be crushed against him, the rich scent of him washing over her, acting on her like a potion, impeding her will power. Such lack of control terrified her while anticipation made her euphoric. She could not care for anything more at this moment than to lose herself in whatever may happen next. 

"No, bruv, bruv, listen, OK, there are mad hotties at this club. Trust me." Two young guys were approaching them. They heard them before they could be seen by them and, as if these two boys were a panacea for what ailed them, they hastily pulled apart from one another, running out of the passage onto the street where the Globe was situated. Clara realized that she had been holding her breath, for the short and sudden bout of exercise produced a coughing fit. The Doctor placed his hands on her back for assistance, then motioned in circles in order to make her feel better. Once her cough subsided, and before she could say anything, he asked if she wanted to go inside the Globe, but it was closed, so she suggested they continue their walk across the bridge to St. Paul's Cathedral. He wasn't going to talk about what happened in the passage, for which she was relieved. She needed time to process what happened -- more so, to think about what would have happened, if they hadn't been interrupted.

They silently walked across the bridge, both admiring the view of Westminster on one side, and the City on the other. When they walked into St. Paul's she was struck again with how large it was. She thought she could easily get lost in it.

"Have you ever be on the roof of St. Paul's?" he asked her.

"No, I didn't know you could do that."

"They let you, at certain hours. Let me find out if we can." He walked away, Clara watching him. She could not believe that only a short while ago she was pressed up against him. She was surprised at herself. The Doctor was proving to be more amiable than he had been when she first met him but he was so much older than her. How could she feel such attraction for a man who was probably older than her father; well, her father if he was still alive. She had had a harmless crush on her English professor in college. He had been in his early thirties, an energetic and passionate speaker who roused even the sport's jocks' attention in class. His classes were always filled within 10 minutes of being posted on the university Web site. He wore brown tweed and patches on his elbows and always, without fail, a bow tie. Still to this day she couldn't see a man in a bow tie without smiling with fond recollection of him.

Was she having a similar passion for this Doctor? They are both English professors, both men of authority -- was it just some kink she had? If so, she had to admit, with the foresight she now had in regards to her former professor, that she had never once felt the same longing as she does now for the Doctor. She had thought her professor charming, entertaining, certainly easy on the eyes, but she never had fantasies of him pushing her up against a wall with a barely concealed smirk on his face, then snogging the life out of her while she pulled herself against him, her hands ruffling in his hair.

"They say we can."

Clara jumped, pulled from her reverie. "We can what?"

"Walk up St. Paul's."

"Oh, yes, that. Great." She followed him to the stairs that would lead them to the top. After some minutes of maneuvering through small passage ways (Clara remarking: "It certainly is our day for small passages" to which the Doctor smiled, but did not say anything in reply) they made it to the top where they could exit the inside of the church and enjoy the vast view of London spread out before them.

"I wanted to go on the London Eye," which she pointed at, for they could see it in the distance, "but it's too expensive, and there are always long lines. Plus, you're in a small pod, like you're a pet fish or something. But here you can really feel London around you."

"It is a stunning sight. I haven't been up here in years. My ex-wife and I came here for our first anniversary."

"Oh, that's nice," she said, but with less enthusiasm. She hoped he didn't notice. She shouldn't mind him speaking about his ex-wife -- given the "ex" before the "wife"-- but she felt, actually felt, a small pang in her chest at his mention of her.

"Are you cold?" he asked, as she had her arms wrapped around herself.

"A little, but it's all right. This sight is worth it."

"Here." He took off his cardigan, placing it around her shoulders before she could protest. She put her arms through the sleeves and did up the buttons. It was of course too large for her and she imagined herself like Alice in Wonderland after she had taken the pill that made her too small. She suddenly felt fragile, with the wind making her unsteady and her lithe frame overcome by his cardigan, and she looked up at the sky, no longer sunny but with many white puffy clouds dotting the scenery, and said, a lump in her throat, "When I was younger my mum and I planned a trip to London. It would be just her and I, a girl's day out. We would take a train early in the morning and go straight to Harrods where we'd have tea and scones. Then we would go to all the museums: the V&A, the National Portrait Gallery, the British Museum, and the British library. Mum wasn't too keen on the latter but she would go for me. We would end the night with a show in the West End and have a fancy dinner afterwards at some posh restaurant." After a pause, she continued, "I've done all that now, but I can't help wondering how much more wonderful it would have been if she had been here with me."

"What happened to her?"

Clara, still looking at the clouds, replied, "She passed away last year. She had been ill for over a year. Cancer. Lung cancer." She smiled what he thought looked like a sad smile. "She'd never smoked a cigarette in her life. I nursed her. My father had died several years earlier when a car hit him while he was walking to work. And, like yourself, I don't have any siblings. Her friends and some distant relations of mine helped out when they could. We thought she would survive. The doctor's had been optimistic; her chance of survival was 80%, but the chemo and radiation didn't work. They said they would increase the dose, but her body was so weakened by then, and there was a greater chance of her dying from the medication due to the increase in the dosage. Mum decided to spend what time she had left enjoying her life. I took her to the beach, the day before she died. I wrapped us both up in the same blanket and she held me and I held her. We watched the sun set together, a beautiful red-orange sunset, the last mum would ever see. I didn't of course know it at the time, but I think mum knew. She didn't say so but after I helped her into her wheelchair she squeezed my hand and said, 'I want you to know that where ever I am going I will always watch out for you; I will always be there. No matter how lost you feel, know that I am right by your side.'"

Clara still had her eyes on the clouds. "I don't know if there is such a thing as guardian angels, but I like to think that no matter how lost I feel mum is beside me, and if I pay close attention she will help me find my way home." She wiped her moist eyes. "You probably think I'm a bit silly."

"No, I don't think you're silly at all. I think you are very brave." For the first time since starting her story she looked at him gazing intently at her, his eyes awash with tenderness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ OUT OF AFRICA by Isak Dinesen ](https://www.amazon.com/Africa-Modern-Library-Nonfiction-Books/dp/0679600213)


	4. Chapter 4

It was the day of Amy's open house. She invited Clara and the Doctor. They both said they would come, although not together, because neither had seen one another since their walk around London the previous Saturday. Amy had found out about their impromptu get together when she called Clara to invite her to the open house. She was thrilled that the Doctor had "bumped into" Clara as she hadn't been certain that he would follow through after her not-so-subtle furnishing of Clara's place of work. Amy could only get the barest details of what they did together and Clara wouldn't provide any insight into how she felt upon unexpectedly seeing him again.

Rory was in the living room with the guests who had already arrived. Amy was in the kitchen preparing hors d'oeuvre's and rolling her eyes every time she heard him say to a new arrival, "This weather is crazy, right? Last Saturday was 15 degrees and today it's snowing."

"Sorry everyone," Amy announced as she entered, hors d'oeuvre's in hand. "My husband thinks we live in Victorian times, where one can only talk about the weather."

"I am well aware it isn't the Victorian times," Rory said, giving his wife a quick kiss, "because if it were my wife would have to be deferential to me, and as you all know deferential is very low on the list of my wife's attributes, if it is even on the list at all." Everyone laughed and she narrowed her eyes at him jokingly. Rory, a loving smile on his face, continued, "Rather she is fiery, passionate, and out-spoken -- and I wouldn't have it any other way."

A few people in the room said "awww". Amy laughed and ruffled up his hair a bit, and gave him a quick kiss to match his own.

"Okay, everyone, so I didn't want this open house to be dull with you all just following me from room to room while I go into the boring details of what kind of wood we used or where we got what piece of furnisher and so forth. Instead, feel free to roam on your own, enjoy some food and lots of wine, and if you have any questions let me know. And then, once you're all good and drunk, we'll play some board games, and Rory will put on his favourite movie: LOVE ACTUALLY." Jeers sounded all around.

"Now, wait a minute," Rory interjected. "I was very drunk when I saw that film and therefore cannot be responsible for my reaction to it."

"You slurred that you had had a 'spirishal awakening' while watching it, and then cried into your popcorn. And I cannot be tried for hearsay, because almost everyone in this room was here when it happened."

"I have it recorded on my Iphone," a friend of Rory's from work said, holding up his Iphone. Everyone ran toward it.

"Jerry, I asked you the next day if you had recorded it, and you said no." Rory walked toward Jerry with an accusing finger pointed at him. As the video started, Clara walked in.

"Are you always late these days?" Amy joked, taking Clara's jacket and hanging it up in the closet in the entry way.

"I didn't know what to wear. I tried on about 10 different dresses but nothing looked right."

"I am flattered that you care so much about what you wear for our open house." Amy winked at her. Clara blushed.

"So almost everyone has arrived. Not the Doctor yet, but he doesn't like these kind of things so he won't show up 'til near the end of it."

From the other room, Rory yelled, "What? How many hits does it have on YouTube?!?"

Amy looked at Clara and said, "I'll show you later."

"Oh, I look forward to it," Clara giggled, following Amy down the corridor.

Clara had been to their house a few times already but this was the first time seeing it in its finished state. Amy gave her a personal tour.

"Only for you, because you are one of my closest friends. I told everyone that I didn't want to bore them with the details of our renovation, but really I didn't want to bore myself telling them about it."

A short time later they were both sitting cross legged on the twin bed in the guest bed room.

"I'm one of your closest friends?" Clara asked, remembering what Amy told her earlier.

"Yeah, if you don't mind. I don't have to be yours."

"You are my _only_ friend in London."

"Are you lonely here?" Amy asked, taking a small stuffed elephant from the bedside table to manipulate while they conversed.

"Not yet. London is an exciting city to live in. But yes, maybe sometimes, at night, when I am alone in the house. Journey works nights at the hospital, so I don't see her too much. And she works double shifts a lot, so even when she is home, she's sleeping. My boss Rose is very kind, but in her 70's, so there's not much to talk about with her. She did invite me to her crochet class, but I respectfully declined." She paused. "So I would consider you one of my closest friends, and I'm glad you consider me one of yours." Another silence while Clara poked at the red quilt beneath her. Amy threw the stuffed elephant at her.

"I've made you sad. C'mon, let's get drunk, and tease Rory about his bad taste in movies." Amy took Clara's hand, dragging her off the bed, and they ran down the corridor together. 

♥♥ 

It was five hours later and the Doctor had still not arrived.

"I did tell him how long it was going to last," Amy said, checking her wrist watch as the credits to LOVE ACTUALLY scrolled on the TV in front of them. By this time all their other friends had left.

"Maybe he forgot," Clara laughed lightly.

"I'm sure that's the reason why," Amy replied. "He picked up another class for one of the English professors who had surgery recently and can't walk for a few weeks, and he has always taken up too many classes as it is. He's probably buried in a bunch of essays and isn't even aware what time it is." Amy smiled at Clara and asked if she wanted to stay for dinner, but she declined. She did however accept an invitation for Amy to drive her home. The latter tried to cheer her up by singing along to the Beyonce track SINGLE LADIES, to which Clara quickly followed suit. By the time they arrived at Clara's flat they were both sing at the top of their lungs and laughing and Amy made her agree to go out to their neighborhood pub and sing karaoke with her sometime. She was still laughing when Clara exited her car. However, the manufactured smile on her face fell as soon as she saw her enter her flat.

♥♥ 

The sound of knocking on the door roused the Doctor from his thoughts, not entirely comprising the essay that he was then reading. It took him a few seconds to get up from his chair that he had been sitting in for hours on end. He stretched. The knocking continued. "I'll be there in a minute," he yelled, his thick Scottish accent making his voice sound threatening, but the knocking would not abate. He walked swiftly to the door and opened it.

With a lack of surprise he said, "Hi, Amy." She barged in past him.

"Let's cut to the chase, shall we? You didn't show up today. Tell me why, no lying."

"First of all," the Doctor said, closing the door and proceeding to sit behind his desk, "I don't need to tell you anything. I am a free person. But, as you can see, I have a lot of work to do, and having found myself even more behind on grading essays than I thought, I determined I could not go out today. Furthermore, I had said that I would come only if I did not have any work to do."

"I should have known you would use that as an excuse."

"it's the truth."

"Truth that is however not the whole truth. You knew Clara was going to be there today. Were you deliberately avoiding her?"

"Sorry, do I live in a communist nation? Because I'm fairly certain I can choose where I go and who I see."

Amy sat on a love seat across from him and tried to assume a more conciliatory tone. "Clara is my friend, a friend who I believe is now hurt because you did not show up today, without even a message to let us know you weren't coming. What happened between you and her last Saturday? Clara told me you went to St. Paul's together, but she didn't say what you talked about. I assumed it went well. From what I could gather she seemed to have enjoyed her time. So why did you bale today?"

He took off his glasses, setting them on a stack of essays next to him, and rubbed his hands across his face.

"We had a nice chat last Saturday."

"That's it?" He gave her a disapproving look. "Fine, I don't need to know what you two talked about."

"I do like her, as an acquaintance, but I don't think it is best to make her think that there would be anything else but a passing acquaintance between us."

"And you showing up at my open house would make her believe that you want to elope and have a bunch of babies?"

"No...but I think it is just best if I don't see her at all."

Amy quickly rose off the sofa. "Oh my God, you're in love with her."

"What? Amy, be serious."

"OK, fine, maybe not in love with her -- yet -- but you like her. You genuinely like her." She started pacing the room. "You fancy her!"

"I do not. I will allow that she is a very amiable young lady."

"'Amiable young lady'!" Amy fell onto the sofa and started clutching her sides with laughter. The Doctor rose, walked over to her, and looking down at her, waited for her to stop dramatically laughing.

"OK, I'm done," she said, after catching her breath. "I will be serious now."

"Good."

"Why do you make everything so difficult?"

He sat next to her. "What am I making difficult?"

"You like her, so why not ask her out on a date and see where it leads? I know you are worried because she is younger than you, but you are both consenting adults. And anyone who knows you would know that you would never be with someone you don't have real feelings for. No one would suspect you of taking advantage."

"I don't care what other people think. Clara should be with someone her own age, with whom she can have children, and grow old beside. It would be selfish of me to attempt to take that away from her."

"The problem is, that you aren't allowing Clara to have a say in the matter. I take it that she lead you to believe that she would like to see you again. At least, I know she was looking forward to seeing you today. She tried to hide it from me but she was hurt that you didn't show up; that you didn't even call to say you wouldn't be coming. It should be up to her who she wants in her life. And as for young men being more suitable for her, I can tell you that the last young man she had in her life hurt her really badly."

Hearing this, the Doctor, who had been looking at the fading tan carpet below him, looked straight up at Amy and asked, "Hurt her? Emotionally or physically? What did he do to her?"

Even Amy was shocked to hear the level of concern in his voice. "I -- I can't really tell you. I know I'm a bit of a blabber mouth but it isn't my place. Clara told me the details in confidence."

"Was it anything that required legal action?"

"I really can't say, Doctor."

He rose and walked a few steps, running his hand through his hair.

"Yes, that's very acceptable, very right."

"But very frustrating," she finished for him. "If you see her again, you can find out from her." Amy rose as if to leave. "I only brought it up at all because I wanted you to see that she has been hurt enough already. She is an extremely independent, resourceful woman, but she needs to be handled with care. If you don't want to see her again, then fine. But if you do, say, 'bump into her' at her place of work, don't lead her on and then run away again when you get scared."

Opening the door to exit his flat, Amy turned to him and said softly, "Don't let what River did to you prevent you from ever having companionship in your life again." She kissed him on the cheek, and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, River's gonna have a bad reputation in this fic. Nothing against TV show River though; I just wanted to use the original characters as much as I could.
> 
> Also, thanks for those who have commented/given kudos. This is the first fan fiction I've written so your lovely feedback is really appreciated. Plus, it spurs me on to keep writing this.
> 
> And with that being said -- another chapter tomorrow! :)


	5. Chapter 5

Clara was feeling unwell, but several weeks before she had agreed to attend the premiere of Amy's students' stage production of JANE EYRE. So she was attempting to lift her spirits for tonight's performance (thereby creating a sort of performance of her own) by putting on her favourite skirt and blouse combination. For she was not ill medically. No sniffles, no headache, or upset stomach. Just a general malaise had settled in, increasing in strength as the weeks went on, the weeks, if she was forced to admit it, following Amy's open house. She never considered herself a melodramatic person. No Mrs. Bennet was she. And yet a definite black cloud had settled over her life. Most of the time, while chatting with Amy or working intently on the outline of a story, she felt care-free, but the moments in between: in the shower, making dinner, watching some reality show on the telly, her mind wandered, and a sadness descended on her. She convinced herself she would feel this way even if a certain someone neglected to show up when she had especially been expecting them. Most of the time she actually believed this. It was when she woke up from a bad dream in the middle of the night or when she was working in the cafe or went for a stroll along the South Bank and she thought, for a split second, that she saw him, that this conviction failed her.

At these times she chastised herself severely. He had not even shown encouragement. When she parted from him at the tube station that would take her home that Saturday when they had stood on the top of St. Paul's he had told her that he hoped she would have a good evening. He did not broach the subject of ever seeing her again and before she could gather the courage to ask him he was already turning from her to leave. And yet, in the passage, when he had inched toward her as if he could not control his desire to be as near to her as possible. An inspiration of the moment, perhaps? Maybe he just had not been close to someone in a while...Amy had mentioned he had divorced three years before and as far as she knew he had not been with someone since then.

Shaking her head while she dressed she thought that these pernicious thoughts were the exact reason why she needed to go out and experience something new, even though she couldn't count JANE EYRE itself as something new as it was her favourite book. She had read it several times over the years since first devouring it in school at the age of 13. Before opening the bulky Waterstones edition of the book, with its image of a sour faced woman on the front, she thought she would find it dull and depressing but she was so swept away by the beautiful writing and hauntingly romantic story that she was spurred on to read all the Bronte's works as well as most of the famous novels of the 19th century. So began her love of literature and writing.

When she arrived at the theater thirty minutes before the start of the performance she immediately spotted Amy giving instructions to a student beside the stage. Once the student departed and Amy saw her, Clara hugged her and exclaimed, "Believe it or not, I have arrived on time for once. And not just on time, but early."

"Oh my stars! I never thought I'd see the day," Amy joked.

"Are you nervous?"

"I think a bit more for the students. We got word an hour ago that there would be a few scouting agents in the audience tonight."

"Exciting," Clara said.

"But you seem anything but excited," Amy remarked, rubbing her arm sympathetically.

"I'm sorry, don't listen to me. I'm just a bit unwell tonight, but nothing major. I genuinely can't wait to see tonight's performance be the great success I know it will be.

"Hmmm. Apparently you aren't the only one." Amy inclined her head behind Clara, indicating the person she meant. She turned just as that person was approaching them.

"You know, in all the years I've been here, I've never been inside our theater. It's a lot bigger than I thought it would be."

"It does look smaller from the outside," Amy responded. "And how are you this evening, Doctor? Haven't seen you in a while."

"I am well. Just managed to finish reading everyone's final papers and thought I might as well celebrate by seeing my friends production."

"Ahem. Especially since you haven't ever seen one of them," Amy replied.

"This is regrettably true. I am a recluse. You should disown me." The Doctor looked around at the people arriving, sitting, and reading their programs and as if just then realizing Clara was in their group he looked at her for the first time that evening and asked, his voice deep-throated, "And how are you, Ms. Oswald?"

Before she could reply, Amy jumped in, "Clara hasn't been very well the last few weeks."

"No? I'm sorry to hear that. Have you been to a doctor?" And he smirked, "A proper one, that is."

"I have not. I've just been feeling a little under the weather." Amy looked at the Doctor significantly; the Doctor gazed back at her with a rumpled brow. "Never mind," replied Amy. "Here, I have to go back stage and make sure everyone is ready. You two find some seats. It'll start shortly."

A few minutes later Clara and the Doctor were still standing where Amy left them, nary a word spoken between them.

"Would you like to sit together?" she asked, if only to break the silence.

"Sure," he replied and they both sat down in two seats nearest them.

"School is almost over then?" Clara asked.

"Yes, and I'm not teaching any classes this summer. Preparing a new class for Autumn term instead, and doing some personal writing. Have you been writing much lately?"

"A little. I've been struggling on the section I am writing right now. I would love to talk about it with someone...if you had any time open, now that you are done teaching, perhaps I could get your opinion?"

He didn't respond as just then the theater lights dimmed and an actor narrating the beginning of the story started speaking.

Her mind wandered a bit during the play. It was wonderfully acted, but she knew the story by heart and she was distracted by the Doctor's arm resting partly on the arm rest that she was also using. She couldn't help but wonder what he would do if she entwined her fingers with his. She imagined he would jump up and look at her strangely with those threatening eyebrows. But what if he let her stay with her hands in his? It was not a risk she was willing to take, but oh how she wanted to. 

During intermission Amy came and asked them what they thought and they all got a quick drink at the bar. When she left them and they were walking back to their seats for the second half, Clara remarked: "I find it interesting that in JANE EYRE the social class of a woman determined what kind of man she could marry. In this society Jane and Rochester are considered an unusual couple because she is of a lower class than he and yet in our day such a thing as social class to determine the ideality of a relationship would not even be relevant. In fact, the only impediment to their relationship (before, of course, discovering he had a wife already living) would be that he is 20 years older than her. Whereas in the 19th century age-gaps in relationships were common and hardly even viewed as out of place." He took a minute to reply, during which she was mentally castigating herself for her comment which revealed more than she would have liked. 

"For good reason we value a couple being of or around the same age," he finally supplied. "We value equality today. Back then men made the money and women tended the home and children. Men held the power. Today, if one person is much older than another, then the one has experienced more, has a better understanding of life's challenges. That person, whether they wish it or not, has a lot more power than the other. That sort of inequality makes for a less than ideal situation. It often causes the breaking up of a relationship, rather than the strong cohesion of it."

She shrugged. "Times change, and we along with them. The portrait of relationships in JANE EYRE shows that well enough. What is valued now won't be 100 years from now. Maybe in a 100 years time marriage will be eradicated all together and people will just remain with one another for however long they may desire one another. I find that more realistic than stating that a relationship is only valued if it follows a prescribed set of rules allowing a union to last the duration of two people's lives. I'd rather have a short lived but passionate and caring relationship than one that is seemingly ideal and long lasting, past the point where two couples may no longer wish to be with one another."

"You think so?" he asked, now looking at her. "I don't know if I would wish that on anyone. There's a lot to be desired from having someone be with us in our good and bad times, especially later in life when we inevitably begin to lose our faculties. I know if you were my daughter I would want you to find someone to grow old with and take care of you for the rest of your days."

The theater lights dimmed. The talking around them hushed. Clara whispered to him, "Your daughter! Why would you say that?"

He whispered back. "I meant as a hypothetical. I _am_ 28 years older than you. You could well be my daughter."

"Well, I am not your daughter, and I don't require anyone to take care of me." The actors walked on stage and started to speak. It was probably best, because there was much more Clara wanted to shout at him that she knew she would regret later on. His daughter?!? Why would he even think such a thing. She was so upset that she barely registered the rest of the play. She vowed she would not say another word to him and that when the play ended she would get up and leave without even a goodbye. So when the play did end and everyone had finished clapping she immediately grabbed her small tote bag to do just that. Although before she could even attempt to pass him she heard him say in that voice that even now sent shivers down her spine:

"I can drive you home if you like." He was looking down at her picking up her bag. His eyes, when she looked at him, seemed entirely repentant, like a puppy who's accidentally spilled milk over the kitchen floor and then looks up at its owner because it knows it has done wrong. "I shouldn't have to use the GPS this time." He smiled at her. If his eyes hadn't convinced her to accept him, then certainly his smile, so rare but so brilliant, drove away completely her former resolve.

As they left the theater together she wondered if there was anything she would be able to refuse him, and as he took her hand in his, for just a moment, so as to hurry her across the street while the lights changed, she thought: nothing, absolutely nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to post this on Tumblr to reach people who don't go on A03 but the whouffaldi tag isn't picking up my post. So here is my Tumblr if you want to follow me on there for updates on this story and other twelve x clara posts: [ AlwaysClaraOswald Tumblr ](http://alwaysclaraoswald.tumblr.com/) If you follow me, I'll follow you back :)
> 
> Next chapter at the end of the week. Things start to get dramatic...


	6. Chapter 6

"Chopin tonight, eh?"

"My third favourite musician after Beethoven and Tchaikovsky."

"I haven't listened to much Beethoven," Clara admitted, sitting comfortably in the Doctor's car as they drove to her flat.

"I can give you a CD of my favourite works of his."

"I would like that very much. This does mean however that you will have to see me again."

He signed dramatically. "Life is full of hardships."

She punched him very lightly on his arm. He rose his eyebrow at her giving her a faux look of staunch disapproval. She wondered what he would think if he realised how much that look turned her on. She felt her cheeks turn red and a sudden warm wetness seep through her panties. She couldn't remember ever having such a visceral response to someone. Clara honestly thought that if she had been touching herself while he had given her that look she would have come apart in a matter of seconds.

"How about tomorrow?" Her heart leapt.

"For what?" She squeeked, thoughts of him being near her (watching her) while she touched herself foremost in her mind.

"For seeing you again. I was planning on going to the new exhibit at the British Museum. It's quite near where I live in Bloomsbury. We could go together if you like and I can give you that Beethoven CD."

"I'm suppose to work tomorrow--"

"Oh, of course, it's Saturday."

"But I was thinking about calling off anyway. I haven't done so in months."

"It's entirely your choice. Now that I'm no longer shackled to my desk grading papers I'm more than usually free and can meet up whenever."

"No, let's do it tomorrow."

"OK then, let's."

He stopped the car as they were now in front of her house. "I can pick you up."

"The museum is near you though."

"It's not a problem. I'll save you some money on transport. Say, 11.00?"

"11.00 is great. See you then." She grabbed her tote bag and exited the car.

She watched him drive away and then put her key through the door, wondering if he meant tomorrow to be a date or just a friendly meet up. The door was already unlocked. She could have sworn Journey was working tonight. She must have been wrong as the light was also on. She shrugged, walking to the kitchen. What would she wear tomorrow...She already wore her favourite outfit tonight. Definitely a skirt, though. Sensible shoes, however, given the walking they would do. She grabbed a mug for tea. He lives near the museum. Would he ask her to his afterward? Would she go? She laughed out loud. If he asked, of course she would, if only to see him in his natural habitat. She wanted to see him in his own space, one decorated to his taste. What books would he have on display; what paintings, photographs? She wanted him sitting behind his desk, glasses on, pen in hand grading essays, wearing a cardigan with just the first few buttons on his collared shirt undone. Oh, yes, she definitely had a professor kink.

"What's made you laugh?"

She turned around quickly and upon seeing the speaker the mug in her hand crashed and broke into pieces on the floor. "I saw you get out of that car. You were sitting in there for a while before you did. Who was in there? A girl friend?"

"Danny! What are you doing here? How did you get in here?"

"Your flat mate Journey. She was leaving just as I got here. I told her I was your boyfriend and she let me in. Said she expected you'd be back soon."

Clara walked around the kitchen table. "I can't believe she did that. I've never told her about you. And you are no longer my boyfriend!"

"How am I suppose to know that, Clara? You left without even saying goodbye."

"Me leaving was the indication that we were through!" she yelled at him, as he moved toward her. "Don't come near me." She tried to move toward the door exiting the flat but he was blocking it. "Danny, you need to leave. You are not welcome here."

"I deserve some sort of explanation for why you left me, left Blackpool!, without even saying goodbye."

"You deserve an explanation? After what happened? Danny, that bruise on my eye lasted 2 weeks."

"I said I was sorry. I didn't mean that to happen. I got the wrong end of the stick. I had too much to drink and I thought you were flirting with that Aidan bloke."

"Not a good reason to hit me, Danny. There is _never_ a good reason for that!"

He inched toward her. "I just sort of blacked out. I didn't even realize I had done it. Listen, I've stopped drinking all together. I haven't had any alcohol in 2 months."

"Danny, please leave." She started fumbling in her small tote bag for her phone; her mace, she realized with horror, was in the coat jacket she had worn walking home from the tube the other night.

"You aren't even listening to me!" Danny yelled. "You won't even give me a chance."

"I don't want to be with you, Danny. I left Blackpool. I'm living in London now. I have a new life here." She couldn't find her phone. She knew she packed it. She started taking things out of her bag, placing them on the kitchen counter.

"A new life, huh? Does that include whoever was in that car? Have you moved on already?" He sneered. "I should have known. You like to think of yourself as Miss Independent but you like to have someone to hang onto, tell you what to do. Both in life and in bed."

"Danny, please," she screeched. "Please leave, or let me leave." But he was still blocking her exit. Any hope of finding her phone was now lost. All the contents of her bag littered the kitchen table. Perhaps she should grab a knife. Was this really so serious? If only she could convince him to leave.

"Danny, I believe that you are trying to better yourself. Why don't you leave and we can talk about this tomorrow after we've both had a good nights sleep."

"OK, but first tell me if you are seeing anyone."

"Why?" she pleaded.

"So you are."

"No, I'm not." She was on the verge of tears.

His voice rose. "Then why didn't you just say that to begin with? You think you're such a great liar, Clara, but I can see right through you." She backed away as he came toward her.

"Get away from me. Don't come any closer." But he kept coming, and his voice rose even higher.

"Not until you tell me, for real, if you are seeing someone."

"I'm not. Just leave!"

"YOU ARE LYING!" he yelled at her. "Why won't you just admit you are lying!!!" He grabbed her wrist as she backed up against the wall behind her, tears now streaming down her face. "You will tell me the truth, Clara Oswald."

Knock, knock, knock.

"Who the bloody hell is that?" Danny demanded.

"Come in!" Clara yelled, in a strangled scream. Danny hastily let go of her wrist.

"Your cell phone was on the floor of my car." Clara ran to the other side of the room to the Doctor and straight into his arms. "Hey," he said softly, looking down whilst instinctively putting his arms around her, feeling her convulsions as she sobbed. Then he saw Danny across the room.

"What is going on here?" he asked in a low but stern voice.

"Clara, who the hell is this? Is this the guy from the car?"

"Do you want him to leave?" he asked her, softly. All she could do was nod her head.

"Right, you should do what she wishes."

Danny came near them. "Not until you tell me who you are."

"Leave now," the Doctor said, trying to steady his voice. "Or you will not like the consequences."

"Oh, is that right?" he replied, inching toward Clara. The Doctor turned them both until she was no longer within range of Danny's grasp.

The Doctor calmly said, "She doesn't want you here."

"Who the hell are you? You're too old to be her boyfriend."

"Leave. Now." He looked directly at Danny without so much as a flinch.

"Unbelievable," Danny said, looking from the Doctor to Clara. "This is not over," he said to her as he walked out the already opened door, slamming it shut, causing Clara to jump in the Doctor's arms and weep a bit louder.

"Shhh, shhh," he murmured into her hair, slightly swaying her in his arms.

"I'm going to bolt the door shut, OK?" he said once her crying subsided a little. She nodded. He reluctantly disentangled himself from her.

"Did he physically hurt you tonight?" he asked her, after bolting the door and cleaning up pieces of the shattered mug.

Clara, with a new mug in hand filled with hot tea and now sitting across from the Doctor at the table in the kitchen replied, "He squeezed my wrist a bit, that's all."

"Has he ever hurt you more than that?"

"Yes," Clara said, softly. He moved his hand to her face, and with the back of his hand cleared away a few remaining tears from her cheeks. At his touch she unwittingly closed her eyes.

"Did he force himself in here?" he asked, his voice gruff.

She exhaled her breath at feeling him remove his hand. She opened her eyes and responded, "Journey let him in before she left for work. I will have a stern word with her later. Or rather when she gets home tomorrow."

"She's going to be away all night?"

"She works nights in A &E. Training to be an emergency doctor."

"For someone with such an advanced degree you would think she would be smarter than to allow a stranger in here. I can only imagine what might have happened if I hadn't walked in. Do you think he'll come back?"

"Maybe. I should have gone to court to get a restraining order against him. I didn't realise he would come all the way to London. I didn't think he was that mental."

"If you don't mind telling me, what has he done in the past?" he asked, grabbing his mug of tea and sitting back in the kitchen chair. 

"What he did. Only once. We were at a party and he thought I was flirting with some guy. He was really drunk and shortly after we got home he started in on how I hadn't acted appropriately. I kept telling him that nothing had happened but he was so enraged that he punched me. He left right after and I didn't see him for a week. I didn't press charges even though my friends told me I should. I should have, I know that now, but at the time I thought he had just been too drunk; that he hadn't really known what he was doing. He had acted jealous before but had never raised a hand to me. When I next saw him I told him I needed some time to think. And he left me alone, didn't even call, for a whole month. What he didn't know was that during that time I was planning my move to London. I found Journey's ad online looking for a flat mate and met up with her. She was nice and needed someone to move in right away so I asked my friend Nina if she could drive some of my stuff down here. I thought about calling him but I didn't know what to say. I probably should have sent a text message, an email, something."

"After the way he acted," he said, through gritted teeth, "he didn't deserve anything." The Doctor ruminated for a while, sipping his tea. Then he said, "If you want I can stay with you tonight, in case he comes back -- or you can stay at mine."

She looked up from her tea. "You wouldn't mind me crashing at yours?"

"I would rather prefer it, actually. Either way, I'm not leaving you alone tonight."

"I don't want to be alone. I think I would rather stay at yours."

"Good," he said, plainly relieved.

"I'll just pack a small bag." He cleared their tea and then looked out the windows to see if anyone was lurking. With relief he saw only a woman walking her dog.

"Are you hungry?" the Doctor asked when some minutes later she returned, carrier bag in hand. "We can go somewhere."

"I don't know if I feel up for going out."

"I don't have much in, but we can stop at the Sainsbury's near my house. I make a mean omelet."

Clara giggled. "Oh, really? I'll be the judge of that."

He smirked at her. "Yes, boss."


	7. Chapter 7

"Do you like cheese in your eggs?"

"Oh, yes," Clara replied, juggling a bag of bread and her favourite tea.

"Here, let me." He grabbed the bread to put in the basket.

"John, is that you?" They both turned round, Clara still holding the tea in her hand.

"Oh, hello. How are you? I haven't seen you in a while," the Doctor said. The mysterious speaker shook his hand. She noticed he looked about the Doctor's age.

"I'm well. Haven't been back to the university since I left. I trust it's much the same," Mysterious Speaker said, looking Clara up and down.

"Yes, exactly the same."

"And, will you introduce me to..."

"Ah," the Doctor proclaimed, looking from his acquaintance to the woman next to him. "Clara." She couldn't help the look of adoration she displayed after hearing him say her name. Perhaps it was just the effect of his accent but the way he said her name sounded almost religious.

"Clara. A beautiful name." He shooked her hand. "I'm Max. I used to work with John, or 'The Doctor' as I'm sure you know he likes to be called. Well, you look like you are doing very well for yourself, John," he said, keeping his eyes on Clara the whole time. "Not surprising, of course. He is a most charming man, as I am sure you are also aware." He winked at her.

Clara supressed a smile and replied with a teasing tone, "Yes, very charming."

"Eggs, cheese, bread, and tea," he rattled off. "A most thrilling Friday night is in store for you two. I will leave you to it. You still have my number?"

"John" merely nodded.

"Give me a call soon, and we can, uh, talk about all the new and exciting things that have happened -- and people we've met -- since we last talked." He gave her one last wink before leaving them.

"Charming, huh? " she asked him as they proceeded to check out. "You've been holding out on me. I've mostly experienced brooding intensity."

"Oh yes, women hate that. There was a particular play we saw this evening where the heroine very much despised this characteristic in the hero."

"Haha. Touche. Although I must say I am very much looking forward to experiencing this charming part of you as well."

"He was exaggerating. He always did like to make fun of me."

As they left the store, she said, "I imagine you can be very charming, when you feel comfortable enough around someone."

He had never considered himself especially charming, or interesting for that matter, even less so after River left him for "adventures." What these adventures entailed she did not tell him but she made it clear that she wished to have them without him.

He carried the one bag of groceries and her carrier into his flat, several stories up, and looking out over the University of London.

"Do you mind if I just look around a bit?" she asked, already intently studying a print by Jack Vettriano entitled ["Long Time Gone"](http://www.jackvettriano.com/shop/longtimegone/) wherein two lovers are kissing in an embrace that adroitly portrayed both emotion and restraint. She studied it for several minutes before he came up behind her:

"Vettriano is Scottish. He's considered a bit plebeian but I've always felt an affinity for his paintings." She would not have expected him to display a piece that was so visually emotive. As if reading her thoughts he said, "This is tame in comparison to most of his works." Still, she was very intrigued by its prominence within the living room of his flat; also by the idea that there were other works of this revered painter that were more evocative. In what way, and did he also feel an affinity to those? Now she felt the need to devour everything within her sight. She hurriedly looked around, taking in his books, DVD's, and few personal photos he had scattered about. His eyes followed hers wherever she went as intrigued by her observation of his possessions, now so commonplace to him that it was as if he were looking at them for the first time along with her, as she was by attempting to deduce his character through the items he possessed and displayed. The books by Hemingway, E. M. Forester, Virginia Woolf, Emily Dickinson; Wong Kar-wai and Claude Sautet films; photographs yellowed from time of people whose provenance she could only imagine -- all comprised pieces of a puzzle that when connected presented a visual representation (she thought: like a self-portrait) as to who he had always been but had not as yet, through words or body language, fully articulated to her. She realised that this glimpse into his self was one that perhaps he would not care for her to know. She turned to him where she knew he was watching her:

"I hope you don't find me too intrusive. Your asking me here, I'm well aware, is not an explicit allowance for me to nose around in your personal things."

"I had thought about blind folding you the whole time you were here, but then I imagined it would make things like finding your way to the bathroom a bit difficult. "

Clara raised her eye brow. "Are you trying to be charming?"

"You consider me blind folding you charming? If so, then yes, indeed."

"Well, sarcasm is a bit of a step up from brooding. We are making progress."

"Progress toward what?" he asked, walking toward her and putting his hand on her shoulders so as to take off her coat. She acquiesced with a nod and he pulled the thin coat from her arms.

She shrugged and then said, as he put her coat away in a closet, "Allowing yourself to be everything you are in front of me. If you want to, that is."

"I'm not even quite sure what 'everything' is. I suppose who you are isn't something you think about, until you meet someone new, and they look at you, wonder who you are, which makes you reevaluate who you are as well. And then they come to some judgement which may be good or bad, and if it is good you tend to agree with them, and if it is bad you pretend you don't agree with them but actually, whether you admit it or not, wonder if what they think is true."

"I promise you that no matter what judgement I come to that I will not place the burden of it on you."

"That is very kind, but I would not wish you to keep your opinion from me. I'd rather know what you think of me, however much it may wound my pride. Besides which..."

"What? Go on," she urged.

After some seconds, he replied, "I haven't known you very long, but I feel that whatever you would think about me would be near to the truth. If you were to tell me that you believed me the worst person alive I would trust that opinion from you. Which should in no way incline you to not tell me the truth." He paused. "Now, would you like me to take your carrier to the bedroom. You can have the bed. I'll sleep on the couch."

"Oh, what couch?" she asked, looking round the whole of the flat. He pointed to what he meant. "You mean that love seat?"

"Yes."

"It's half the size of you length wise. You can't sleep on that."

"It's all I have, I'm afraid. I don't usually have people over."

"Well, then, I will sleep on the sofa. At least I'm small enough to fit it."

"It would not be very gentlemanly of me to allow that. The bed is far more comfortable."

"More ungentlemanly would be you not _allowing_ me to choose where I would like to sleep." 

"Ah," he said, walking to the kitchen, "we have entered a feminist quandary." He grabbed a bowl and started cracking eggs. "How about, if you _allow_ me to be a gentleman by making you supper, I will _allow_ you to sleep wherever you wish."

"I can't really argue with that."

She made them tea and they sat down to the little kitchen table with their eggs and toast.

It didn't take them too long to eat during which she talked about the story she was writing and he about the new class he was building for the next term, and then there was silence, during which he could clearly see she was thinking intently about something until finally she divulged:

"Being here tonight is well and good, but what if Danny comes looking for me tomorrow or the next day?"

He looked at his watch. "It's half passed 11.00 now. Why don't you get some much needed sleep and we can formulate a plan tomorrow morning over breakfast?" He took their dishes to clear. 

"I don't want to drag you into this. You don't really have to worry about this; it's my concern."

"I suppose it isn't my concern but I would like to hear what you are thinking about doing and to help you in any way I can. From what I saw tonight, Danny is not a very good person, and I am worried about what he may try to do to you."

"I know. This is what I am worried about," she rose and walked toward him in the kitchen. "I don't know what he's capable of. I don't want to live my life forever worried that he's going to show up and do something crazy." She looked at him with such fearful eyes.

"Tomorrow. We will talk about it tomorrow. This is not something you need to sort alone. I am here and willing." She agreed, although he could still see the trepidation in her eyes.

She asked if she could take a shower and while she was gone he set up the little sofa with a few blankets and pillows. She came out of the shower, hair wet, wearing a white tank top and flannel pajama bottoms from which her little feet peeped out of the bottom. Even with her hair wet and unkempt (or perhaps because of it) the Doctor had to look away from her before she saw his reaction so worried was he that she would see the expression on his face betraying his thoughts, and more so his feelings. Does she know how beautiful she is? he wondered, fluffing up the pillows on the sofa even though he had already done so. Without makeup and in her pajamas she looked a few years younger than she was, and he could not believe he was having such a visceral reaction to her appearance. Surely it was wrong the way he was feeling? He reminded himself again -- as he did at the theater when he pointed out to her that he was old enough to be her father -- that he was 28 when she was born. They _were_ both adults but really there was a point at which an age difference was too large to not be an impediment.

"I tried to make the sofa as comfortable as I could."

"I'm sure it will be fine," she said, wringing out the water from her hair with a towel.

"Well, then, I will leave you for the night. If you need anything, just ask."

'I will, thank you. Good night."

"Good night," he said quickly as he left the room without turning his gaze in her direction, which she thought odd, but she was so tired she couldn't even ruminate on it. Once her hair sufficiently dried she laid down on the sofa which was a lot more comfortable than she thought it would be -- a few blankets had been put down on the cushions for extra support and she sank into the several fluffed pillows. She audibly sighed at how relaxed she felt, physically at least. Mentally her mind was in turmoil. She could hear the Doctor in the shower but did not see him come out as she was facing away from the door to the bathroom. She drifted in and out to the sounds of him walking around and then getting in bed.

"I am safe now, even if tomorrow and the days after I may not be. I will figure something out. And the Doctor will help me."

With this thought in mind she fell asleep. Only to be awakened a short time later from a terrible dream in which she was in a darkened tunnel and Danny was chasing her. However much farther she felt she had gotten away from him, he was always only a few feet from her, nearly able to catch her. Finally he overtook her, grabbing her arm and twisting her round to face him. She saw his angry face and tried to scream but nothing came out. That's when she woke. The first thing she noticed was a wetness on her pillow. She had dried her hair before she fell asleep. She felt her cheeks. They were soaked with tears. Then she noticed the living room was almost completely dark. She couldn't make out much of anything. Her heart was beating and in her mind she was still in that tunnel with Danny. She told herself she was in the Doctor's flat, that Danny was not there, but after several minutes of trying to calm herself, she realized that she was only panicking even more. If she was at home she would turn on a light but she couldn't remember where any of the lamps or lights were. New tears were forming in her eyes. She could go to the bathroom, turn on the light there, but as soon as she rose from the sofa to do so her only thought -- her only wish -- was to go to the Doctor.

She passed the bathroom, walking straight to his slightly ajar door, knocking on it lightly. Not hearing a response from him, she opened the door wider and walked in. There was at least some light coming in from the moon that was aligned with the window but the curtain obscured most of it. There was enough for her to see the Doctor, curled up on his side, facing her, asleep. She touched his blanketed leg. "Doctor," she whispered. "Doctor." He stirred and rubbed his eye. "Doctor," she said again, and this time he woke.

"Clara?" he said, groggy.

"Yeah." She came within his view.

"Do you need something?"

"Not exactly. I had a bad dream about Danny and I kind of panicked. I have to think about a way to resolve this now. My mind literally won't let me rest until I do."

He sat up a little and moved over from the edge of the bed, motioning with his hand for her to sit. She did. She saw that he was about to say something but abruptly stopped. "Have you been crying?" She nodded. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. "You don't think you'll be able to get back to sleep?"

"I'm scared if I do fall asleep I'll have another bad dream about him."

He took a deep breath. He saw the worry etched on her face. She was picking at her nails, waiting for him to say something.

Slowly, he said, "I can put on a light in the living room."

She shook her head. "I need to figure this out now -- what I'm going to do. I should probably see the police. I don't know how long it will take me to get a restraining order...several weeks, I imagine, until I can get a court date. And how can I protect myself during that time? Journey is gone most nights. I can bolt the door, but what if he's crazy enough to try to break in? What if he finds out where I work and comes after me there?" He took both her hands in his.

"Take a deep breath," he instructed her.

She did but her eyes grew even larger with worry. "London is a large city. I really thought he wouldn't find me here. I don't even know how he found out where I live. I only told a few people and I asked them to not say anything to him. What if..."

"Clara," he interrupted her. "You are killing me here, you know."

"What do you mean?"

He didn't answer as such, but moved even farther away from her, and releasing his hands from hers lifted the edge of the blanket. "Lay down."

"What, underneath the blanket?"

"Yes," he merely supplied.

"Will you be staying?"

"Yes," he said in the same manufactured even voice.

She climbed under the covers. He moved it further up over her then laid on his back with his hands on his chest, his eyes wide open looking up at the ceiling. She laid on her side facing him.

"Don't look at me. Close your eyes," he said. She did as she was told. Twelve minutes later she was still wide awake, going over different scenarios even though her eyes were closed.

"Stop fidgeting," he commanded. She hadn't noticed until then that she was. She abated her nervous movements. With thoughts still running through her head, however, she slowly opened her eyes. He was still looking at the ceiling. She had been looking at him for several minutes wondering if he would get mad at her if she said anything to him when he turned his head to look at her and she had not time to close her eyes to pretend she was sleeping. "Clara..." he remonstrated, looking back at the ceiling.

"What?"

"You aren't sleeping."

"You can't just command someone to sleep. Besides, you aren't sleeping either."

"I want to make sure you fall asleep before I do."

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep, even with you beside me." Tears began to fall and she wiped her eyes while relaying, in a tiny voice, "I thought I was safe in London. I feel like everything I've built for myself these last few months is falling apart, and I'll never be safe again." Even though he was looking at the ceiling she knew that he could hear her crying, despite her attempts to quiet it. It would not stop and she spent several seconds quietly crying into the pillow before she felt his hand on her back, rubbing it in circles.

"Clara, everything is going to be all right," he said softly to her. But he couldn't say anything to stop her crying. She could not even attempt to quiet it now. Her whole body was convulsing with it and she couldn't keep up with her breathing. "Clara, you need to breathe," he was saying to her but she only shook her head; she could not even form words to tell him that she couldn't stop. And then she felt his hand underneath her waist picking her up, moving her nearer to him until she was resting on his chest, his arm wrapped around her to hold her in place. She could hear the staccato beats of his heart and feel his hand rubbing her back up and down, his other hand holding hers as it lay on his chest, drawing circles on it with his thumb. "Shhhh, shhhh," he was murmuring into her hair as she convulsed and cried into his chest. "I'm right here. Nothing can hurt you," he said, in a soothing voice and after a minute she could feel her muscles begin to relax. She gave into his caresses and took a deep breath, smelling his familiar scent and without being entirely aware of it her convulsions lessened until she was no longer crying. His hand that had been holding hers now wrapped around her shoulder and she extended her free hand round his waist, sinking further into him as her eyes began to droop.

He heard her whimper _sotto voce_ as she finally succumbed to sleep and then her breathing slow and her weight sink into him, on his chest, where he was holding her, secure on top of him. Although her legs were parallel with his, her whole upper body was covering him, so that he could feel her breasts, soft and heavy, crushed against his chest, and the beats of his heart momentarily sped up at the thought of how intimate it was. He hadn't even thought of the implications of his actions. He had held out as long as he could but when she began crying uncontrollably his actions were no longer his own. All he wanted to do was hold her in his arms, make her feel safe. If he was honest, he had wanted to do this numerous times ever since she first ran into his arms at her apartment. Holding her, feeling her small body against his, entirely dependent on him for her safety, filled him with a blissful contentment as if he could not want for anything more than this. He was not even cognisant that he too was succumbing to sleep, lulled by the feeling of her slow and steady breathing and her arm wrapped so tightly around his waist. Nearly asleep, he maneuvered himself one last time so that his head was resting against her own, the sound of her tranquil breathing the last thing he remembered.


	8. Chapter 8

He heard birds chirping and rain lightly falling on a window pane. He felt something stir beside him, pressed up against him as he lay on his side. He moved closer, drawing in a long breath, recognising her scent. Lilacs. He had never before been drawn to the smell of lilacs. Before they had been an innocuous scent whose only association was the advent of Spring but he knew that now it held with it a more substantial meaning, even though, if someone queried him about this meaning, he would not be able to elucidate it in words. He could hear her murmuring in her sleep. It sounded like she was in distress. Half conscious, his eyes still closed, he drew her even closer to him as they both lay on their side facing each other and on her temple he kissed very lightly. He noted her murmuring had stopped before succumbing to sleep once more.

It wasn't the birds or the rain that woke Clara but the Doctor, lightly snoring, as he lay beside her, his arms wrapped around her so that she was only inches from his chest. It took her several moments to waken, finally stirring in his arms so that she could look up at him as he slept. He was so peaceful and youthful-looking with those threatening eyebrows now tame and his hair disheveled. She rose her hand toward his forehead and then stopped, inches from it, as she realised what she was doing. He was still lightly snoring so Clara, hand still in suspension, moved it closer toward him until her fingers were grazing over the curl in his hair that tantalised her every time she looked at him. His grey hair was at first slightly gristly but then softer as she moved deeper within it. Quite, she thought, like the Doctor himself.

Reluctantly, she moved her hand away, too afraid of him waking and realising what she was doing. Also, she was desperately thirsty. She lay there for another five minutes, watching him, relishing the feel of herself within his arms which last night in her panic she was unable to do. Would she, she wondered, as she maneuvered herself from him, be near him like this again? She knew he must have been desperate to go to the lengths he did to calm her. He had expressed his opinion regarding the disadvantage of a relationship between people of disparate ages. _So his actions must have been a result of his fear of me not being able to breathe due to crying rather than prompting from a warmer, deeper feeling_ , she surmised, grabbing a glass in the kitchen for water. _He may care for my general well-being but not so much that he would **want** to console me. He would never initiate such intimacies under normal circumstances. He does not, and will not, ever care for me in that way._ This she was entirely convinced.

She made herself a cup of tea and looked out the window at the rain pouring down, the trees swaying violently.

"Yes, OK, we will be there, thank you." She turned to see the Doctor in the entry way to his bedroom, fully clothed in a cashmere sweater and dark slacks. He had evidently put something in his hair as it was no longer disheveled but combed back with only that unruly curl escaping.

"I called an old friend last night, while you were in the bath," he said, walking toward her. "She's a barrister who specialises in family law. I wanted her opinion about your situation -- I didn't give any names or explain anything in too much detail -- but since I said that I would help you I thought any insight I could get from a legal standpoint may assist in determining your options from here on out."

"Oh, wow, you did not have to go to such trouble."

"It was no trouble at all. She and I are good friends -- have known each other the last 30 or so years -- she even did my divorce for me, although it didn't take too long. River didn't want anything. Well, anything but to not be married to me anymore." He looked away from her and walked to the kitchen to boil water.

"What did she say, regarding my situation?" Clara asked, curious but also eager to change the direction of the conversation from one that seemed to understandably make him uncomfortable.

"She didn't say anything. She said she can't adequately advise on the situation without meeting you to hear the details in more depth."

"Oh."

"I made an appointment for this morning at 9.00. I told her we would be there." He poured coffee into a mug and walked toward her. "It goes without saying that you don't have to go. I wanted to secure the appointment because she is very busy and in demand, even on the weekends, but I can call her right back and tell her that we can't make it."

"No, I should go. This is exactly what I need to do."

"OK, good. So you don't think I was being officious?"

"Officious?" She smiled at him. "This is just the thing I needed to do, and you set it all up for me. You better be careful, next thing you know I'll be depending on you for everything."

"I very much doubt that. Amy told me that you are a very resourceful woman."

"Oh, has Amy been talking to you about me?" she smiled at him, a prolonged smile of amusement. He did not reply but stood gazing at her, his eyes increasingly hooded, quite, Clara thought, seductive. "What?" she asked him.

He turned away. "Nothing."

"No, you were thinking something."

"Nothing at all." She walked toward him, putting her hand on his arm so as to turn him round to face her. "You know I won't rest until I find out."

"That I do not doubt," he said, allowing her to turn him round. Drawing in a long breath, he said, "It was really nothing. It's just when you smiled just then..." A pause. "I've never noticed that you have dimples. They just," he motioned his hand toward her right cheek without touching it, "they are..." Another pause. "just caught me off guard." He lowered his hand and walked away.

"You better get dressed. We only have a half an hour to meet her and her home is across town." 

♥♥ 

It was still raining when they arrived in Regent's Park. With an open umbrella in hand he walked to the passenger seat to open the door for Clara, and they both crouched underneath it as they ran across the road to one of the white stoned terrace houses, his arm that was not holding the umbrella positioned behind her back but not touching her. The door, when opened, revealed a woman of middle age. I suspect a description that initially springs to mind when a person is described as middle age is someone who is a bit plump, with grey hair and sagging wrinkles. This, I can relate, was not the lady that was then standing before them. For one, she was tall, regal, and elegantly dressed in a black dress reminiscent of the one worn by Audrey Hepburn in the opening scene of Breakfast at Tiffany's, definitely not a dress you would expect to see one wear early on a Saturday morning. She had long black hair, most certainly coloured but not obviously so -- professionally done -- as you would expect from someone living in the palatial home they were about to enter. She extended a rather bony hand to Clara who noticed a very pointed look from the lady as she did so. Taken back by her menacing gaze she returned a half-hearted shake, quickly pulling away her hand. The lady smiled -- a playful one as though, Clara thought with a shudder, she was a cat that had found something to play with -- and they were both ushered inside.

"The Doctor has told me somewhat of your situation," she said, balancing an ornamental tea pot above Clara who was sat holding a delicate tea cup. "Little splosh?" Clara nodded. "Lovely." She moved around the table to offer the Doctor a cup of tea. "The Doctor would not give me too much information about your situation -- he has such a high degree of prudence -- but he did say that your boyfriend -- now ex-boyfriend -- paid you a most unwelcome visit last night and lightly man-handled you, that this was not the first time he had done so, and that you feared he could do worse, that he had actually threatened you?" She poured herself a tea and sat.

"Yes, all that is true. When I lived in Blackpool he struck me."

"Did you call the police?"

"I did not."

"Oh, dear. Well, that is not good. You would have a stronger case if you had." 

"I know. It was foolish."

"Very, very foolish."

"Missy, don't be cruel," the Doctor remonstrated.

"I'm not being cruel, I'm stating the obvious, much of which Clara herself seems to already know. Look, it doesn't mean that we can't get you a restraining order against him. He came to see you last night, physically assaulted you, albeit not as badly as last time, and then threatened you. Better yet, the Doctor was there to see him restrain you and to hear him threaten you. Now, the question is, do you wish to have me represent you?"

"I'm not sure," Clara said, looking at the Doctor. "I don't really have much money and, with all respect, you seem like someone who charges pretty high."

"The highest," Missy said with a self-satisfied look. "Oh, don't look so much like a calf who's lost its mother, I will represent you free of charge. I don't even take such middling cases; the hearing will last an hour, two at most. I wouldn't take it up at all but that you are the Doctor's...." she trailed off looking at them both expectantly.

"Friend," he supplied.

"You are very kind, Ms. --," Clara began.

"Missy. Only Missy, darling."

"--- Missy, but I would like to pay you something if you represent me."

"Oh, you are a prudent one too. Mr and Mrs. Prudence." She gestured toward them both, rising from the table, and looking at Clara again with that pointed stare that has so cowed her earlier. "If you give me any money I will take and burn it right in front of your pretty little angelic face. Now, do you want me to represent you or not? There's a delightful case I have to attend to in 20 minutes where I am representing a Count whose prints are all over the murder weapon that killed his wife."

"Do you think you will win?" Clara spitefully asked.

"Un - doubtedly."

Clara looked again at the Doctor for assistance.

He remarked, "Missy's bark is louder than her bite -- and she likes to play rough -- but that's also why she is a brilliant barrister. She's familiar with all the judges and can bring this case before one of them much sooner than anyone else, and not only get a restraining order against Danny but have him whimpering back home to Blackpool to never come back again. Her moral code is loose at best and her personality nears toward the psychopathic but she's the best option you have right now."

"Oh, hunny, your words make me feel so warm inside," Missy interrupted.

He ignored her. "You go anywhere else and you will have to wait weeks to even get a barrister assigned to you."

"If you trust her..." Clara began, looking at Missy with anything but trust, "then yes, I will accept." Then to Missy, "How soon do you think you can bring this to court?"

"I should be able to secure a court date by tomorrow."

"So soon?" Clara exclaimed.

"Yes, so soon," Missy mocked. "I will call the Doctor to let him know when. Then we need only subpoena Danny."

"I don't know where he is," Clara remarked.

"Not a problem. I have people who can find him. In the meantime, you must see the police and report what happened last night and then make sure that until the court date you are not alone or if you are that you are adequately protected. Do you own a gun?"

"No," Clara said, shocked.

"Do you have a knife?" she sneered.

"Kitchen knives." She rolled her eyes. "Here, take this," and she pulled out a blade from underneath her dress. "Keep it with you at all times."

Clara, surprised, replied, "Do you always keep a knife under your dress?"

"Yes, you never know who you are going to run into. Sometimes literally."

"She won't need it," the Doctor remarked, taking the blade from Clara's hand to give back to Missy. "I will make sure she is safe."

"Oh, will you?" Missy's eye brow arched. She walked toward him then fixed the collar of his coat that had become twisted in the wind, brushing a few drops of water from it as she did. "You are always the perfect gentleman." He glared at her, looking straight ahead for she was as tall as he, with what Clara thought was not an entirely remonstrating glance. He seemed to enjoy her teasing. Perhaps noticing that, Missy smiled at him, dropping her hands from his collar.

A horn sounded from outside.

"That is my driver. You will hear from me by tomorrow evening."

♥♥ 

"What did you mean when you said you would keep me safe?"

The rain had stopped and they were walking in Regents Park after their meeting with Missy.

'I meant that I would watch over you." 

"How?" 

They stopped in front of a bank of stems that had not yet blossomed into flowers.

"Well, there are several options. I can stay with you when Journey is working nights or you can stay over at mine. Or you can tell me to piss off."

"Why would I tell you to piss off?"

"Because I'm molly coddling you."

"I don't think that at all. In fact I fear the opposite, from you. I fear you may think I am too dependent on you. You have seemingly fixed my problems in the matter of one day when, on my own, I could not even do the right thing by going to the police after Danny assaulted me. I just ran away, thinking that would solve everything, when really it just made everything worse. I feel such a fool, a naive little fool, and I don't deserve all this help you are giving me. I don't deserve a friend like you." She could not even look at him she was so ashamed. He placed his fingers underneath her chin so as to raise it to make her look at him.

"I do not think you are a fool. I think Danny put you in a terrible situation. You found a new place to live, a job, and moved to a new city, and you did it all on your own. That shows a great deal of self-reliance. And this thing with Danny will be over soon. As for not deserving me, no one deserves anything, but sometimes we are lucky enough to come across people who will help us and no one should be ashamed to accept the help we are given." He removed his hand from her chin. She felt the loss of it keenly. He saw her sudden moroseness and believing it a result of the situation with Danny he asked, "Do you have work tomorrow?"

"No. I have every other Sunday off."

"Will Journey be home tonight?"

She shook her head in the negative.

"Then why not just stay with me another night?" At this, her eyes shown brighter and she could not help a small smile from escaping. Seeing this sudden transformation of hers made his heart soar. It was ego, he convinced himself, it was his ego soaring at being able to make her happy by something he had said. Or was it something else? That voice in his head that he so often ignored would not be suppressed. In fact, recently it was staking a bigger claim that ever before. Was this warmth he felt and that so engulfed him that he could actually feel it tingling through his veins merely a result of being pleased to see her content and happy, as though her feelings unwittingly dictated his own? No, it could not be -- his reason returning -- something so simple, so pure, as that.

She had been thinking all this time, while he ruminated, whether she should accept him but she knew, the moment he asked, that she would, that, without allowing herself any thought specifically as to why, she would never reject any reason to be near him. "I would like that very much," she responded and without warning she hugged him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and squeezing him tight. It was so unexpected that it took several seconds for him to respond, finally putting his arms around her, albeit with much less force, then giving a few quick taps on her back as if to say that she could now release him. She moved away and tried to keep the smile on her face even though she now felt less enthused than she did a moment ago.

He said, "I believe Missy will have a court date set up by the end of the week. By this time next weekend you may be able to resume your life like normal." He gave her a clipped smile, avoiding her gaze, and resumed walking down the lane, not waiting for her to join him.

Like normal. She wondered if normal meant without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention 'slow burn'?
> 
> Next chapter soon. Things start to progress... :P
> 
> Thanks as always for your lovely comments. If anything, they keep me writing this thing. xx


	9. Chapter 9

They spent several hours in the police station so that by the time they returned to the Doctors flat -- they had also stopped at hers to gather new clothes -- it was past 9.00. He suggested they walk to a French bistro down the street that he often went to alone. It was the only restaurant in the mostly residential area, small and packed with people, but he knew the owner and was able to secure them a table on the verandah that was reserved. "I'll just tell them we overbooked," the owner, female, said, winking at the Doctor before walking away.

"Ah, is there something going on between the two of you?"

The Doctor, blushing, replied, "No, not at all. Donna is married with two lovely red-haired children."

"Well, nonetheless, I think she has a bit of a _penchant_ for you," she teased, in a mock french accent, illuminating as she did those dimples that the Doctor, despite his best efforts, could not tear his eyes away from.

Donna returned again shortly with a basket of freshly baked bread, "the pain aux noix that you like," before turning to Clara to ask if she had ever been here before to which she reponded that she had not. After exchanging a few pleasantries Donna smiled brightly at her and without warning took Clara's hands in hers to shake enthusiastically.

"I'm so very glad to see you here, with the Doctor," she said, looking at the aforementioned and then back at her. "You are so very lovely."

"That is so kind, thank you, but you don't even know me. I could be," Clara whispered jokingly, "a complete monster."

"Oh, but I can tell that you are not. You are just...absolutely perfect," she gushed, before walking away to summon their server.

"Well, that was interesting," Clara remarked, amused.

"Very," he replied. "Donna is a sweet woman but also very quick-witted and sarcastic. I've never seen her so, I don't know what the word is..."

"Serious?" Clara offered.

"...emotional."

Clara would have added -- and how very different a greeting from the one that she had received earlier from another of his purported friends.

They were more relaxed during dinner than Clara thought they would be given their early awkwardness in the park. She suspected the bottle of wine they were sharing was very much the culprit for this. She shared with him tales of escapades she had as a child and he told a few jokes that perhaps others would have found corny but she laughed at more than she believed she had ever laughed at anything in her life.

She liked him like this, unselfconscious at last, displaying a side of him that she always suspected he had within him. At one point her face was positively beaming at him and, with slightly glazed eyes he asked, "What has made you look that way, as if you've just been given a million pounds?"

Prevaricating slightly, she replied, "I can't say what exactly, I'm just very happy. Right now, in this moment, irrespective of whatever has happened before and whatever will happen after, I am completely and utterly joyful."

"Ohhhh, I think maybe we have had a bit too much wine."

"No!" she exclaimed with enthusiasm, shaking her head at him, an amused look on her face. "Look at this night. It is no longer raining, there is a full moon, and we are sitting outside in one of the most beautiful cities in the world drinking wine with all these other people around us chatting and enjoying being alive. What more is there to life than this moment right now?"

Looking at her up and down with his eyes while she spoke so passionately he answered, softly, "Nothing at all."

"You know what would make this better?"

"No, what?" he smiled.

"If we went to Westminster Bridge."

He thought for a moment but then shaking his head said, "I'm sorry, what."

"In thirty minutes it will be midnight." She drank what was left of her glass of wine.

"Okay, I'm really not following."

She laughed. "At midnight Big Ben tolls its bells 12 times. I've never seen it. Let's go," and she got up to drag him from his chair.

He laughed, "Okay, but first I need to pay the cheque." He did so quickly and they ran to the nearest bus station. When the bus they needed arrived she galloped up the stairs, two at a time, to the upper deck of the double decker, where she found two seats for them in the front.

"I find it interesting that the two common modes of transportation in London are so very different from one another. At the top of this bus you are suspended up high, almost as if you are not in the bus at all, as you pass the brightly lit buildings and the traffic below but on the tube you are stuck claustrophobically in literally a tube below the ground in a hole in which you cannot make out anything."

"Are you always this philosophical when you're drunk?"

She giggled, looking at him looking at her with those eyes that always surprised her. They were so changeful. One minute calm and serious, the next tender and warm, and then, like now, jovial and teasing. But _always_ breathtaking in their blue depths.

"For that mister you have to endure me resting my weary head on your shoulder the rest of the ride." And she did just that, not expecting or necessarily wanting anything from him physically as a response, just wishing to feel some part of him near her. So when he did react, putting his right arm round her waist, resulting in her moving closer to his chest, she was entirely surprised, and this surprise at his actions increased her feelings of joy.

They arrived and disembarked from the bus at Westminster Bridge with only 5 minutes to spare before Big Ben, that antique clock seemingly rising out of the Thames (like King Arthur's sword or an edifice created by a long ago culture that presents itself out of the depths of a suddenly shallow water) would chime the midnight hour. They were not alone. People hurriedly walking passed them, a hot dog seller anticipating good business from the people leaving the clubs hungry after a night of dancing and booze was set up behind them, a man on the bridge played an accordion, and people like them waited for the clock to strike. When the dials turned to the highest point it ever would and the introductory bells began to chime the accordion player turned silent, in reverence, one could assume, to the superior instrument. With the succession of introduction chimes Clara felt her skin pimple as if cold, becoming ever more pronounced with the 12 beats that followed, each separated by seconds in-between, but reverberating off the bridge and water below, so that the sound of them remained throughout, and up to, the reverberation of the last beat.

When the last bell rang she placed herself against him, her head on his shoulder once more. He steadied her with a hand delicately placed on her shoulder, looking down at her as she spoke softly: "In MRS DALLOWAY Peter Walsh poetically exclaims to himself, after walking through the streets of London, 'the death of the soul', cogitating on the isolation people feel in large cities, how civilisation itself, compared to more primitive societies, destroys communion between peoples. But Big Ben here, reliably striking its bells hour after hour, for those to hear even miles away, is the symbolic embodiment of the Soul of London. It is always there, a constant companion, connecting us together, even those that are friendless."

He now put his arm around her waist and placing his lips against her temple he kissed ever so softly, as he then remembered doing the last time she was in his arms so very close to him, and though he could not see it, she closed her eyes, allowing herself to feel him, his weight holding her against him. He nuzzled against her hair, breathing in, smelling her shampoo, his own he realized; she had been using his because she had forgotten hers. The thought made him feel weak. She had been using his shower, sleeping in his bed. Before leaving for the evening he saw her clothes scattered along his bed. He realized sharply that it would always be like this, if she lived with him. Her laptop beside his, her makeup littering the kitchen table, her favourite tea stashed in the cupboards. Her.

The thought made him so delirious that he was not even aware of the people still passing them on the bridge. He kissed her again on her temple, which was then supplanted by one on her cheek, and then another slightly further down, and then finally one near but not touching the side of her lips. He awakened at this point, his ever faithful reason finally alerting him to what he was doing, but it was to no avail for Clara herself moved one inch closer to him, her lips, as a result, grazing ever so lightly over his. He heard her soft whimper and felt her lips push further against his, herself standing on tiptoes in order to do so, and it was then any reason he had recovered was once again forgotten.

For the first time he applied force to the kiss, placing his hand against her cheek to hold her in place, kissing her once, twice, three times, each kiss more forceful than the last. She wrapped both her arms around him, tilting her head to allow him further access, opening her mouth and then crashing back into his. They were both vying for the lead, neither one of them yielding, neither one of them caring. She whimpered again and running her fingers through his hair she ran her tongue along the top of his upper lip, tempting him, immediately hearing a guttural sound in his throat. She took this as permission, entering, meeting her tongue with his, as eager as her own. She tasted him, the softness of his tongue as it joined hers a delicious contrast with the force with which their lips came together. She placed her hands on the lapels of his coat to pull him down, wanting, needing him to be closer. He obliged, moving the position of his head from right to left, extending the kiss deeper, placing now both hands against her cheeks. The loss of his arm against her back, however, unsteadied her in her still semi-drunken state and she jerked backward slightly. Even in his delirious state he moved his hand to catch her, resulting in their lips losing contact with one another.

"Oh God," he said, looking down at her. "I'm so sorry."

"What for?"

Now confident she was steady he moved his hand from holding her and running it through his hair said, "I am still very drunk. I shouldn't have..."

And Clara knew. He regretted it. Before it was really even over, he regretted it.

"No, it's all right. It was my fault too," and before he could see her hurt expression she turned to look out at the Thames, the lights from Parliament illuminating the water.

He placed a hand on her shoulder and then thought better of it, removing it. "I don't want to make you feel bad. It's not that you aren't...you are a very beautiful woman...it's just that you are much younger than me and I don't think it would be wise--"

"Yes, I know," she said in a clipped voice and taking a deep breath, she turned round and said, resigned, "It's very late. We should go home. To your home, that is."

♥♥ 

The Doctor woke up feeling awful, and it wasn't just the massive headache he had. He had hurt Clara. He knew it, although she had turned away from him so he would not see it. How could be so careless? _This is exactly why she should not get close to me_ , he thought, while dressing. _I will always hurt her, because I am old and set in my ways. Someone as young and vibrant as her should stay clear away from someone like me. Once I have insured that Danny is long gone I will make myself scarce in Clara's life, if indeed she even wants to see me now._ Half suspecting she may have left his flat this morning so as to never see him again, he walked cautiously out of his bedroom to ascertain if she was still sleeping on his sofa where he had left her after she refused his request -- "The least I can do after my poor behaviour" -- for her to take the bed to sleep in and he the sofa.

The backside of the sofa was facing him so that he would have to walk several steps before being able to view the open portion of it. He remained where he was at the entryway to his bedroom, hesitating before walking the few fateful steps. After some minutes he found the courage to do so and what he found was....blankets folded one on top one another, three pillows stacked beside them, just as they were before he had last departed her. Had she not even slept on the couch but left the flat in the middle of the night? The only place she could be without him presently knowing was the bathroom. He turned left. The door was wide open, light shining in brightly through the curtains of the bathroom window. Still, he looked inside, drawing back the shower curtain, even though he knew it was a futile effort. No, of course she was not there. He hurried back into the living room, taking a wide sweeping view of the area, then walking into the small space off the kitchen that he used as his study, looked behind his desk chair and underneath the desk itself. No, it was not there, it was not anywhere.

Her carry-on was gone. _She_ was gone.

He collapsed into his study chair, rested his hand on his forehead, and felt tears well behind his eyes. Oh, how foolish he was, getting emotional. He knew her all of five minutes. "And yet..." he said aloud, although unable to finish the sentence, not really knowing what "yet" was. He rose from his seat and walked to the window, hoping the movement would somehow distract his tears from fully forming. He looked out at the day, so very different from the one before. The sun was out in all its glory. His neighbours children were playing footy in the street. Mrs. Derbyshire was being dragged along at an alarming rate (for she was 80) by her mastiff dog, which he knew any other time would have amused him. The Chesterton's were taking their new-born baby out in their overpriced pram that they told him they had bought expressly because it was the same that the Duchess of Cambridge used for Prince George's christening. And a young woman with medium length brown hair was hurriedly walking up the street with a bag of some kind of baked goods from the bakery several blocks away.

He looked back at the boys vigorously enjoying their game of footy only to then immediately return his gaze to the brown haired woman. "And yet," he found himself saying, "And yet..." He peered closer to the window, although to no avail, the sun was obscuring her face, but he recognised that bouncy walk and was not that blue top the one he remembered her furiously taking off his bed last night?

She stopped outside his building door and Mickey, his doorman, opened it for her, and as he did the sun was finally eclipsed so he could see her, and yes, it was her, yes it was his Clara.

Well now the tears were coming. He wiped them away, splashed water on his face which he then dried with a towel from the bathroom and gave himself a little talking to, knowing she would arrive any second. And so she did. She walked right to the kitchen, not seeing him near the bathroom, got two plates from the cupboard, and on each she placed one large chocolate croissant. Then she looked up and upon spotting him blushed a little.

"You're up," she said. "I was hoping to surprise you with coffee. But just wait a minute, I'll make it, and then we can sit down for breakfast. I don't know about you but I have a horrible headache."

"Yes, I do too," he said, his voice cracking against his wishes.

"Sounds like you're losing your voice too. You should drink some water; the alcohol probably dehydrated you."

"Good idea." He walked to the fridge and pulled out an Evian.

"I hope you don't mind that I left without locking up. I couldn't find your keys. I fumbled about a bit in the pockets of your funny little coat with the red lining but among the many, and I must say interesting, items I found in there, keys were not one of them."

"It's fine. Mickey doesn't let anyone in he doesn't recognise."

"Also, I figured if Danny had somehow sniffed out my hiding place that there were enough people around at this time of day that I could ask for help. I did, however, walk at a brisk pace."

"You can do whatever you want, Clara. 'You are a free human being with an independent will.'"

"Isn't it a bit early in the day to be quoting JANE EYRE?"

"It is never too early to quote the Bronte's."

"Amen," and she turned to him and gave him a smile that was however slightly hesitant.

"There's one thing I'm wondering about, though. I don't see your carry-on anywhere."

"Oh, I put it in the closet. I didn't need you stumbling over it, breaking a hip or something, you daft old man."

The uproarious laugh that escaped him was most welcome. "That is most considerate of you."

"Well, I like to look out for my elderly," and she winked at him. The ice had been a little bit thawed.

"Did you not sleep at all last night? The blankets and pillows are exactly as they were when I left you." She sat down where he too was sitting at the kitchen table and taking a large bite of the croissant said, mouth full, "I did, I'm just a perfectionist. I like things to be neat and tidy."

"Not however the food that you eat," he said, motioning toward the crumbs she left a as a result of her voracious eating.

Swallowing, she said, "What can I say? I'm a complex woman."

They ate in silence for a while, neither one of them wishing to broach the subject that each knew the other was thinking. There were a few awkward exchange of glances before his phone buzzed and he looked down to see a text message.

"It's from Missy," he said. "She says that she got a court date for Wednesday. She's still trying to track down Danny. And...oh."

"Oh, what?" Clara asked, worried.

"Oh, nothing. Nothing about the case at least," and as he looked at up her she saw a great blush on his face.

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes, quite sure. Nothing at all to do with you."

"But, however, it does have to do with you?" Clara asked.

"Yes, just Missy being...Missy."

"Ah," Clara said, consuming the last of her croissant.

As she went to put their empty dishes in the sink, a light knock sounded on the door. The Doctor opened it to admit Amy.

She walked into the living room, talking as she went.

"So apparently you don't answer your phone anymore? I've been calling you these last two days. Rory and I are taking a trip next week to Paris and wondered if you wanted to go. We're meeting up with some other friends there and since you aren't working right now I thought you might like to come and hang out with us. We've booked a huge house on the Left Bank and it's really cheap with us all chipping in. I've been trying to get a hold of Clara to ask her if she wanted to come too but, like you, she's been M.I.A. these last two days." And it was just as she said this last part that she turned round to face him only to also see Clara in the distance.

"Oh, Oh my. OK. Well, that explains a lot."

"It's not how it looks," he said.

"U huh." Amy rushed over to her friend. "Clara and I will be have a bit of a tete-a-tete in your bedroom," she said, while dragging her to the aforementioned place, Clara giving him a comical look as she was whisked passed him, the door to his bedroom shut behind him.

"Gurl.....we's got to talk."

"Okay, but can we do it without sounding like we're in an American reality T.V. show?"

"I can make no promises," Amy said, jumping onto the Doctor's bed. "So, you're staying here then? Are sleeping with him -- tell me everything -- what has he said to you -- are you happy -- is the sex good -- actually, forget that last question, that's kind of weird -- he's my friend -- I mean I want to know but I don't want to know, you know what I mean?"

"Take a deep breath," Clara instructed, joining Amy on the bed. Amy took a large dramatic breath and then blew it out, taking Clara's hands in hers. "I want to know every last detail."

"I'm afraid it's not going to be very juicy."

"Clara, what's wrong? You look like you're about to cry. Did the Doctor say something stupid? Because he's always doing that. For being an English teacher he's very bad at communicating with people. Ask him to give a recitation of the symbolism in The Great Gatsby and he's astute and eloquent, but when it comes to simple human interaction he's like a four year old on Kids Say the Darnest Things."

"You watch a lot of American T.V., don't you?"

Amy nodded in the affirmative.

"No, It's not exactly that. A lot has happened since I last saw you. Friday night, after the play, I found Danny in my apartment."

"Danny! How did he find you? Are you all right? He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"He didn't have time to. The Doctor walked in while Danny was holding my wrist --"

" -- Oh my god, Clara."

"The Doctor stopped him, but Danny barged out saying that I would see him again. So I stayed here. That was Friday night. Nothing happened between the Doctor and I. I did get a little scared in the night and he let me sleep with him."

"Oh my goodness," Amy smiled.

"But nothing else happened. I don't think he would have done it -- I know he wouldn't have done it -- but that I was beside myself with worry."

"I don't know about that, but go on."

"He called up a friend of his -- I don't know if you know her, Missy is her name --"

"I've met her once, here in fact. I came round to drop something off that he had left at our house and she was here -- this had to be 3 years ago -- around the time of his divorce. She seemed very fierce. Apparently they've known each other a long time."

"Fierce doesn't begin to describe her. We went to her house and she said she would represent me, for free, because I know the Doctor. She got us a court date for this week. Now she's just trying to track down Danny. She says she knows people who can find him."

"That's kinda weird."

"I know, right? And then she sent the Doctor a text message this morning -- telling him of the court date -- but she also sent him something else that made him blush but he won't tell me what it is, only that it wasn't about me or the case."

"He was blushing?"

"Yes, and just before we were to leave her place yesterday she put her hands on his coat and was teasing him, kind of seductively, and he seemed to like it. I wonder if he's interested in her."

"Hmmm. I don't see him wanting to go out with someone like her. And if he did, why wouldn't he have done it by now? They've known each other so long."

'I know but he seems to..."

"To what?" Amy prompted.

"To get turned on by her."

"It's probably just embarrassment. He's so very sensitive and, well, British. I bet you if I went out there and started flirting with him he would act exactly the same way and he definitely has never been inclined in that way toward me."

"I guess. It's just, Missy is around the same age as him. That's what he wants, someone near his own age. She's better suited for him than..." Clara paused.

"Than you?" Amy finished.

"No, I didn't mean that," Clara said, looking down at her nails.

"Listen, the Doctor doesn't know what he wants. I mean, he knows what he _should want_ , but that's not the same as what he actually wants. Maybe this Missy woman turns him on a bit. Even the most devout of married men can't help their mind wandering from time to time. Hell, I still want to fuck the brains out of Leonardo DiCaprio, but if he offered himself to me would I? Not in a million years. A shag will never be as satisfying as the emotional attachment I have with Rory. And you and the Doctor are the same."

"Amy, you're being dramatic."

"No, I'm not. I know you think I'm silly, but listen to me. When I met you the first thought I had was that the Doctor would not be able to resist you; you two are so much alike. You're both sweet and caring and intelligent. You both love literature. You've both been through emotional trauma. And, yes, I did think that he was a lot older than you and that it could present a problem, but once two people share an emotional bond with one another no amount of societal disapproval is going to stand in their way, not at least if they're willing to fight against it. I know you are capable of it, and he will be too. He's just a lot less sure of himself than you are about yourself. He will fight for you, given time. You just need to hang in there. And as for Missy, he could never have an emotional attachment to her -- I don't even think she's capable of any kind of warm emotion -- which is why nothing has happened between them."

"That you are aware of..."

"True. But what does it matter now? You are the one living with him."

Clara laughed and threw a pillow at Amy. "I'm not living with him. Just staying here until the court case. Or, at least, I think I am. Yesterday he only asked me to stay the night."

"Did anything happen between you two last night?"

Clara thought of the passionate kiss they shared on Westminster Bridge and then of the disastrous aftermath. She couldn't bear to relive it.

"No, nothing. I slept on the couch. Didn't have any bad dreams."

Amy thought a moment. "So when is your court date?"

"Wednesday."

"And everything should be over by then?"

"Missy seems to think so."

"Good. If it is, then you have to come to Paris with Rory and I. We're leaving next Friday. And I will make sure that the Doctor comes along too. In the meantime, Rory's having some male bonding time with his friends and the little old wife, me, has nothing to do. Do you want to go out to lunch? That is, if you don't mind me tearing you away from your lover."

"Really?!?" Clara fake admonished.

"OK, soon-to-be lover."

"Amy!"

"What?" she asked, innocently. "Seriously, though, you have to tell me how he is in bed."

"Amy!!!"

"Fine, maybe not all the details, but, you know, the main points -- I must admit, I've always wondered."

Clara planted herself face first down on the bed and shook her head back and forth, kicking her legs as she did.

"I mean, c'mon, I bet he's really good at it."

Into the bed sheets, Clara yelled, "Amy!", as she started laughing hysterically. Amy fell on top of her and started laughing herself.

After they recovered themselves -- somewhat -- Amy said, "I guess we should go out there and pretend that we haven't been talking about what the Doctor is like in bed," which only made them both start laughing again. Finally, Amy gathered herself and Clara did too and they looked at each other to make sure the other had on a straight face which was really all to no good for as soon as they opened the door and presented themselves to the Doctor, who leapt out of the chair he was sitting in, they both fell into one another with renewed fits of laughter.

Clara was the first to recover and answer his puzzled face.

"Sorry, we're just being silly girls."

"Clara and I are going out for lunch," Amy related as soon as she too recovered. "Do you mind me tearing her away from you for a few hours?"

"No, not at all. You two are clearly having a good time."

"I will bring her back to you in a few hours. Also," Amy said, grabbing her purse, "I think it best if she stays here until the court case on Wednesday. Presumably Danny doesn't know about this place so she's a lot safer here."

"Um, Clara is right behind you," Clara teased.

Amy turned round and winked at her. "I know, but I want my friend safe, and I know," she said, turning round now to the Doctor, "that she could be no where safer than with you. So will you promise to keep her safe?" He paused a moment and looked at Clara. She was fidgeting with her top, trying to avoid his eyes. She looks so vulnerable, he thought. Then he remembered how he felt less than an hour before when he thought he would never see her again and before he even realized it he was saying "yes, of course you can stay here, Clara, if you wish, for as long as you like."


	10. Chapter 10

"I'm home," Clara called out, walking into the Doctor's apartment. "Oh." She stopped as she saw Missy comfortably ensconced next to the Doctor on the little sofa. They were evidently having a conversation of a personal matter as she had her hand on his leg.

"Clara, dear, it's so nice to see you," Missy said, moving herself a few inches away from the Doctor.

"Missy came over to go over some last minute details about the case," he said, looking very much like a schoolboy who feared being sent to the headmasters office.

"We found Danny," Missy exclaimed. "He was staying at some hostel in Elephant and Castle. He tried to run away from my boys but let's just say he wasn't able to. He _will_ be there on Wednesday."

"I don't quite know if I like the sound of that." Clara crossed her arms in front of her chest. She was, quite frankly, pissed at finding Missy so very close to the Doctor and was done with playing the mouse in this game of cat and mouse Missy clearly wanted to play with her. "It sounds illegal. I don't like it."

"Oh, really?" Missy remarked. "When my boys showed up to deliver the summons Danny tried to escape out the back door of the hostel. My boys chased him down. If they had not done so, he would not have received the papers, and therefore he would not have been obligated to appear at court, which would have made your case even more flimsy than it is considering that you did not report the first, and more substantial, assault. Danny told them that he wouldn't appear; they changed his mind. In my opinion, he's a man that won't take no for an answer. If you want him to leave you alone, if you want to feel safe going to work or Pilates or whatever little hobbies you have, if you want to feel safe in your bed at night, then you will leave it up to me as to how we accomplish this. Restraining orders to men like him don't amount to anything so long as it isn't reinforced to them the severity of their punishment if they do not do as they are told. I won't abuse your virginal ears by telling you how, but let's just say I don't think he will be making any contact with you after Wednesday, without at least fearing for his life if he does."

"This is not how I think such things should be done. I thank you Missy for your help but this is a bit much. And you can call me virginal if you want for thinking so but for the record I am very much past being a virgin."

Clara noticed the Doctor's face turn red. Missy was grinning. "That's a bit of a shame. Virgins are so much more fun," and at this she looked at the Doctor who, if he had not been shocked a moment ago, was certainly so now. She looked at Clara's beet red face and laughed maniacally, "Oh, Doctor, I almost envy you. She looks so very sweet and delicious, like a just ripened peach."

"Missy, that's enough! " he exclaimed, his Scottish accent thick with authority.

"I know, I know, I've over extended my stay. I'm leaving now. I will see you two Wednesday morning. We have to go over a few things before the actual court appearance."

Clara realized, irritated, that she had lost this round.

"I'm sorry about that," the Doctor said, once she left. "Missy likes to tease."

"And no one more, it seems, than me."

"Especially women, yes. She likes to be the dominant one."

"Is that what you like about her?" Clara asked, nervously. "That she likes to overpower people, yourself included?"

"I wouldn't say that. I've known Missy since we attended the same university together in our twenties. I guess I'm just used to her."

"Seems more than used to her..."

He looked at her intently. "Am I meant to ask what you mean by that?"

"She had her hand on your knee when I came in," she said, looking directly at his eyes, those blue eyes that even though she was upset she couldn't help but look at with astonishment. "She is very familiar with you. I think, perhaps, you two were once lovers?"

At the term "lovers" he recoiled, physically walking back a few steps away from her and then remarked, emphatically,

"No, Missy and I have never been lovers."

"Really?" she exclaimed, more breath than words.

"Yes, really."

"But, she's always touching you and looking at you seductively."

The Doctor chuckled. "It is an ongoing problem and one that I've discovered I'm powerless to resolve. Missy likes to play games. I've been one of the only men (or women) who has ever been able to resist her which has the effect of making her even more determined to win me over. I have told her quite plainly that it will never happen but as I'm sure you can figure out 'never' is not a term that Missy allows."

"But..."

"What?" he asked, sincerely.

She walked toward him, stopping only inches from him, to look straight into those clear blue eyes so as to gauge the truth of the answer to her next question. "It seems to me that you like how she acts with you. Am I right?"

"That I like her teasing me?"

"Yes."

"I may have found it a bit amusing at times which I am not very proud of myself for. But as I've said, she and I have never been together, and I would never want to be with her in...that sort of capacity."

"You mean having sex," she said, bluntly.

"Ah, yes, that is what I mean." He looked away from her.

"Because it seems to me that you would enjoy being with her, someone who is dominant, who would tell you what to do." She looked at him intently, making him look at her.

"I...Uh," he stammered.

"Or do you like being the dominant one?"

"Clara," he smiled, nervously.

She knew she was going too far but somehow she didn't care. "I'll admit that I like it when a man is dominate with me, but then sometimes I like to be the dominant one."

"Well, that is very interesting," was all he could think to say, and he retreated back away from her but all there was behind him was wall, and she was walking toward him while he retreated. "I think you are much the same, am I right Doctor? Is that why you like people calling you 'Doctor'? Because you like to be dominant?"

"Clara, you are being very..." he couldn't think of an appropriate word. She helped him.

"Naughty? That is what you were thinking, wasn't it? That I was being like a naughty little school girl."

"Clara...just because Missy called you virginal earlier does not mean you need to prove to me that you aren't."

"I'm not trying to prove anything. I'm just expressing myself. Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"Maybe...a little," he said, although his eyes, she thought, betrayed him. Yes, he did look a little bit scared but also, she thought, aroused, his eyes so directly intent on her as she moved closer to him, his chest rising and falling rapidly with his breath. "I'm sorry I'm so dull. I did try to warn you."

"You aren't dull. You are just a little bit afraid. And so am I, quite frankly. But, we can be afraid together." She took his right hand in hers. Turning it over she gently placed a kiss on the bottom of his palm, the sensation of it for him almost painful, the cool wetness from her mouth a stark contrast with the warmth he otherwise felt radiating through him. He felt panicky from fear and expectation.

And then she placed her arms around his waist, hugging him, placing her head on his chest. Not quite knowing what was expected of him, he slowly put his arms around her, hugging her back.

"This hug is a lot better," she murmured into his chest.

Than the one from yesterday, in the park. He remembered. When she had leapt at him and he was too aware of himself to hug her back.

She felt him relax, the tension leaving him. She had scared him. The professor who no doubt lords it over his classes frightened by a little girl such as herself. A person could use such things to her advantange, but she knew she would never do that to him, she would never want to scare him. She wanted so much for him to feel comfortable with her. Amy had mentioned that he had suffered emotional trauma like she had. She suspected it had to do with his ex-wife who had left him so suddenly and, she suspected, contemptuously. Could it be that it was not just her age that prevented him from getting close to her but also that he had been so hurt emotionally that he feared getting close to anyone? She would have to be careful.

She looked up at him while in his arms, her chin resting on his chest, and smiled. "Do you want to watch a movie?"

While peering down at her he didn't immediately say anything, his eyes glancing over her face, and she wondered -- very much wished to know -- what he was thinking, but after a few seconds all he said was, "Sure."

"What do you have?" Leaving his arms she glanced through the DVD's stashed on a book shelf in the corner. Her finger that had been running over them stopping on one. "Ohhhh, ROMAN HOLIDAY. This is my favourite film."

"ROMAN HOLIDAY it is, then."

She made popcorn and they sat next to one another on the little sofa with the large bowl of popcorn between them. 

"Did you know that this was Audrey Hepburn's first film and that she won an Oscar for it?" She said, shoving popcorn in her mouth, the Doctor bemusedly watching her eat and talk at the same time. 

"How do you stay so skinny?" 

She shrugged, taking another large handful of popcorn. 

"I did know that, and since we're apparently playing this game -- did you know that Gregory Peck tried to convince the studio bosses to put her name first in the beginning credits but they refused because she was an unknown?" He took a few pieces of popcorn from her hand.

"Oi, there's a huge bowl of popcorn right here." 

He merely shrugged, as she had done only a few moments ago. She narrowed her eyes at him and then, serious, said, "Peck was quite the gentleman, more so than any of the other actors of the day. I can see you doing something like that -- putting your own interests aside for someone else," and then teasing, "so long as they didn't have any popcorn." 

He threw a few in his hand at her. 

"We all have faults." 

He started up the movie, the credits and music playing on the screen. "I think your faults are very small compared to many. You're kind, considerate, you aren't violent or mean, you don't belittle people."

"I'm very withdrawn, which can have the effect of making people think I don't care about them."

"Even when you really do?" 

After some seconds, he replied, simply, "Yes." 

They finished their popcorn half way through the movie during which Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck were riding haphazardly on a mo-ped that Hepburn's character had stolen off the streets. Clara laughed, placing the now empty bowl on the table in front of them, and then grabbed a blanket draped along the back of the couch to place around herself. 

"Have you ever been to Rome?" he asked, watching her bundle herself up.

"No, have you?"

"Yes. I've been all around Italy. I have family there. My grandfather was Italian. Rome in particular is beautiful."

"We should go there together some day." 

Still looking at her, he said, "I would like that." 

"Are you cold?" she asked, a few minutes later. 

"No, are you?"

"I am a little, even with this blanket on. Would you mind if I laid up against you, nothing funny I swear." 

He looked at her comically, clearly not believing her. 

"What, I mean it. I'm just cold."

"I can get you another blanket."

"But I'm also a bit tired and want to lay down but this couch is too small for me to do so." She looked at him so very innocently, practically pouting, but he knew she was at least partly fibbing so she could get near him. Flattered and amused by her machinations he smiled at her -- she noted the crows feet around his eyes as he did so, somehow illuminating for her his handsomeness -- and said, "Fine, then." She came near him a bit hesitant but then he moved his arm so she could place her head on his chest and she hurriedly moved against him as he put his arm around her, on top of the large blanket. She could hear the beats of his heart and feel him breathing as she lay on his chest, and there was still at least an hour left of the movie before she would have to leave this position. She wondered if he was at all affected by her being near him, but when she looked up at him he was sat watching the movie without any pronounced expression displayed on his face. 

She looked down at his right hand laying on his lap. They were sporting some wrinkles as befitted his age but they looked strong with very long fingers. Instantly she had a vision of his hands touching her body, his fingers, she thought with a blush, plunged deep inside of her where she could now, for real, feel herself getting wet. She was surprised at herself. She had never been with a man more than four years older than herself. She had never even had a crush on an older man, save the occasional celebrity. He was 58 for goodness sakes but however much she said his age to herself over and over, her wish, her need, to have his hands on her body grew, so that she found herself touching his hand without even realising it.

"Are you all right?" he asked, looking down at her. 

"Yes," she said softly. She looked up at him and he saw that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were consumed with desire. "I'm sorry," she said.

"For what?" he breathed. 

"For this." She rose up and kissed him, fast, before he could fully realise what she was doing, moving to straddle his lap, preventing easy escape. He wasn't kissing her back but she didn't care. If he was outraged so be it; she wanted to be close to him. She pressed up against him so that her breasts were smashed against his chest and her thighs wound round his waist, her knee-length skirt bunching up around her bare upper thighs. Though he was still not returning her kiss she could feel his hardness inside his pants against her wet undies. She deliberately moved herself away a little so she could move herself against his hardness, hitting herself just so, the sensation of it sending reverberations of pleasure throughout her core. With her mouth open against his she very loudly whimpered. 

"Clara..." he said, in a soft admonishing voice, his hands placed on her hips, keeping her still.

"Please," she whined.

"Please, what?"

"Please, don't make me stop."

How lovely to see her begging him, her face contorted in a mixture of pain and want. Slowly, he moved her hips toward and then against him, then away and back against him again, doing this three times, each time eliciting a litttle mew out of her.

"Do you feel good?" he burred, continuing to slowly move her back and forth.

Overcome, she merely nodded.

"Tell me," he breathed.

"So very, very good," she said, her eyes closed as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders to place delicate kisses against his chin, now sporting several days worth of stubble.

He moved her against him faster now, the little sounds she emitted growing louder each time she crashed back against his hardness. She felt herself become wetter and wetter. Looking down she saw the stain she was leaving on his trousers on the bulge that was created by his own arousal. While she was looking down he moved her against him and she heard for the first time his own whimper of pleasure and when she looked up at him as he moved her away she saw that he too was looking down at the stain left by her wetness. Then he stopped moving her; she tried to move herself against him but he wouldn't allow it, his hands on her hips keeping her in place away from him. And just as she was about to cry out in frustration his right hand moved to the edge of her skirt and he looked at her in such a way that she knew he was asking her permission.

"Yes," she said, breathless.

He slowly picked up the bottom of her skirt, revealing as he did her underwear, panties in a floral design and only just covering all of her. The light colour of the fabric was darker all along the bottom where she was wet and seeping through. He emitted a soft sound of appreciation and looked up at her with eyes full of reverence. Keeping her gaze on his, she took his other hand and placed it against the wet fabric of her underwear. He closed his eyes and then looked down at his fingers, already wet against the flimsy fabric that did little to hide to his touch what was underneath. He moved his two fingers against her slowly and she, in response, grinded against them, her hands on his shoulders for support. Her eyes were closed, and he vacillated between looking at the evident pleasure on her face to his fingers gliding across the fabric and her lower half gyrating against him.

"Are you close?" he asked, a few seconds later.

"Yes, oh yes."

"Lay down," he instructed, hoarsely.

She immediately did as she was told.

"May I?" he asked, his fingers on either side of her panties.

"Oh God, yes."

He slowly removed her panties then looked up at her.

"You don't have to worry. You can do absolutely anything you want," and as if to further this point she removed her skirt, placing it on the bottom of the floor as he had done her panties, revealing to him all of her, without any encumbrance.

With her index finger she touched herself on her nub, rubbing it gently. She was pleasuring herself for him to watch, her eyes closed, her other hand grasping her breast hidden underneath her shirt. He felt himself become harder just watching her and he longed to touch himself but he knew he wouldn't. This was about her; _only_ about her. He took the hand that was pleasuring herself and kissed it reverently on her palm, as she had earlier kissed his. Then, he placed his own finger on her nub, expertly continuing what she had been doing herself. Her mewing became ever more pronounced. Her back arched and she pulled a part her legs, revealing even more of herself to him. He didn't know if he could stand it, seeing her so very aroused, seeing her wet and soft and open for him. With the fingers of his other hand he made circles around the outside of her core and then he placed first one finger in and then, confident she was comfortable, two fingers, moving the two long fingers slowly in and out. Feeling his fingers go in and out of her wet warmth and tightness as she writhed beneath him made him so hard that he felt a little discomfort and even though he knew this would further his discomfort he decided to do the very thing he had wanted to do ever since he saw her wetness on his trousers.

Lowering himself, he removed his outside finger from her and blew on her nub, causing her to moan deeply while once again arching her back. He removed his fingers from inside her, which she felt the loss of keenly, exclaiming "Please no" to which he smirked to himself as he viewed her frustrated brow. It was cruel to watch her so conflicted but he had to admit that it turned him on, if for no other reason than because he knew that this frustration would, at his control, turn into something quite different so very shortly. He looked at her intimate place now he was so very close to it -- the little triangle of hair on the top, the taut nub, her full pink lips and the place where he could see evidence of her pleasure. He smelled the perfume of her arousal, so very delicious; he wanted so much to taste it. He first kissed the lips of her, plump as a result of her excitement, then with one lazy lick of his tongue he soaked up the wetness from herself that was there. She squirmed beneath him.

"Oh, Doctor, please; need more."

"Patience, my dear," he drawled against her lips, his Scottish accent thick, his eyes completely hooded while he looked up at her pleasure-filled but frustrated face.

He licked her again, and then put his whole mouth on her, over her hole, sucking the juices seeping out of her. He continued like this for some time before inserting the two fingers from before inside her again, even deeper this time, moving them in and out, positioning his mouth over the rose coloured nub above. Clara moved herself against his mouth, his stubble rubbing against her, pleasurably harsh. He licked her with his tongue as his fingers began to move quicker and quicker. He was afraid of hurting her, but her cries of pleasure assured him that she was enjoying it, so that every time she cried louder he increased his pace. He moved his long fingers back and forth at a furious pace, pulling them almost all the way out of her before plunging into her as deep as he could, all the while she writhed underneath him, her hands deep in his thick grey hair as he changed yet again from licking to delicate sucking. While he continued plunging in and out of her she moved his head even closer to her and on a deep moan she cried out, "Oh, Doctor, yes, yes, oh yes," her core pulsating around his fingers, her release finally realised. She fell back against the couch, breathing deeply, as he slowed his movements, languidly moving in and out of her while she came down from her pleasure.

Her eyes were closed and a completely satiated look present on her face. _She looks more beautiful now than I've ever seen her_. He grabbed the discarded blanket from the floor and with a flourish chastely covered her with it. He moved her hair from her eyes before caressing her cheek with the back of his hand. She opened her eyes and peered downwards at his arousal, even more noticeable now.

"Would you like some help with that?" she asked, looking at him with a little smile.

"No, that won't be necessary," he said, grabbing the other end of the blanket to put around his lower half.

"I'm more than willing."

"Clara..."

"You can't admonish me, after what you just did. Or are we going to pretend that didn't happen?"

"No, we can't do that," he said, as if he did wish he could do that.

"Well, then, will you lay with me for a little while?"

"Yes, of course." The sofa being too small for them to lay side by side, he pulled her up onto his chest, wrapping his arms around her as she nuzzled her head into his shoulder. They stayed like this for some time, neither one speaking, until she looked over at the television.

"The movie is almost over," she remarked, as they both watched Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck say their goodbye, a happy ending denied them by the reality of their situation, she a princess, he a commoner. "I hate sad endings," she said some time shortly after, as she watched Peck slowly walk out of the palace, presumably to never see Hepburn's character again.

"I thought this was your favourite movie."

"I love everything about it up to this point."

Then quickly changing the subject, she announced, "I'm going to take a shower." She jumped out of his arms, the blanket still wrapped around herself, casting a quick glance back at him before walking away. 

♥♥ 

She came out of the shower a short time later and dressed in his bedroom. He said that he too would take a shower and she sat on the sofa watching BBC One, drying her hair with a towel. Having secured a t-shirt and pajama bottoms to change into, he took off his clothes in the bathroom and checked that the temperature of the water was just as he liked it, nearly scalding hot. He didn't immediately start washing himself. Far away from her, secure in the small shower -- the curtain on three sides, the wall next to him -- he could finally ruminate on the implications of his action. It wasn't like he couldn't have tossed her off his lap. He knew that even as he was pushing her against him. But it was just too pleasurable; he couldn't stop himself. Even thinking about it now he felt a tingle of pleasure run through him. It wasn't just the feel of her crashing into his hard-on -- although, yes, that had felt extremely good -- but it was herself, her unabashed desire, the weight of her sitting on his lap, feeling her pleasure on his hard-on, for as well as seeing her wetness he could also feel it seeping through his trousers.

"Oh, God," he said, out loud, reliving in his mind the sensations of the events that transpired merely an hour before.

_No! I'm suppose to be chastising myself, not turning myself on._ He looked down and saw that he was once again hard. Despite not touching himself he was just as hard as he had been earlier after making her come. And of course now he was thinking about her coming, the feel of his mouth against her soft plump lips, and, oh god yes, him fucking her with his fingers. Because that's what he had been doing, was it not, fucking her with his fingers, as he now took himself in hand, secure in the shower, the water beating down on him, loud, deafening. He steadied himself with a hand pressed flat against the wall, his other hand moving gingerly over his hardness, pumping slowly as he recalled the sweet taste of her juices that he had lapped up so greedily.

He wasn't far from coming, the events of the evening propelling him, and the fact that he hadn't made himself come in over a week. But he didn't want to come just yet. He wanted to lose himself for a little while longer. He stopped pumping, moving his index finger above to caress the pre-come exuding there onto the rest of the head of his member while applying light ministrations to it. He thought again about his fingers being inside her. How tight she was when he put his first finger in, so much so that he feared putting in another, but he knew it would bring her more pleasure so he entered her slowly with the second, stretching her cavity. She was not a virgin, and her shame-less actions toward him proved that as much as anything, but though no longer a virgin, her body, he was certain, had not a vast array of experience. This reinforced for him her age and he knew that had he not been safe from censure in the shower that he would feel a great deal of shame. She was an adult, well past it, but so much younger than him. Her body taut, no lines or imperfections. She was simply gorgeous, her body a work of art that she had given him the privilege to explore and admire both visually and tactilely, a privilege he knew he should never be allowed.

She was forbidden. And yet he had stilled enjoyed her.

In the shower he moved his hand further up his member, pumping faster than before.

No, he was not, he could not, he thought -- all the while increasing the pace of his pumping -- he could not be getting turned on by the fact she was too young for him, that the fact that she is 28 years younger than him means that he should not be touching her. But that he had touched her, with his mouth, and entered her with his fingers. He was pumping himself furiously now, moaning softly, the pleasure gathering more and more as he thought about his fingers fucking her, about her enjoyment at him fucking her with his fingers, about how he plunged them deep inside of her, filling her up, stretching her, while she writhed beneath him, the deluge of wetness when she came engulfing his fingers. His pumping was now faster than ever and with the last image in his mind, her pushing his face further into her folds and crying out his name as she came, he groaned as his pleasure reached its apex, his come released into his hand in spurts, so much, thick and milky white, gathering there for him to see before he placed his hand in position for the water to wash it away.

♥♥ 

He looked at himself in the mirror, at the lines around his eyes that spoke of tiredness, naturally tired because it was the end of the day and as a result of now feeling satiated. He ran a brush through his full damp hair and climbed into his clothes. A blast of cold air hit him as he left the bathroom. Clara, he saw, was now laying on the couch, blankets piled on top of her, reading a book, her hands only out of the covers as much as was needful to turn the pages.

"So much for Spring," he remarked. "I'll put on the heat." But as he reached the thermometer he stopped and turned to look at her as she was peacefully reading. "Or would you rather sleep with me? We can keep each other warm."

She put down her book. "Really? I would like that," she said, her voice tiny.

"At least I won't have to worry about you being uncomfortable on that ratty sofa." He saw the happy smile on her face, although she tried to hide it by turning around to gather her pillows.

She asked, "Do you want to sleep now or can I read a bit in bed? I've just started a new chapter."

"LES MISERABLES," he said, peering at the title as she came toward him. "Good luck with finishing it. In all the many years I've lived I've not managed to accomplish it. And yes of course you can read. What kind of English professor would I be if I restricted reading?"

"A very poor one, but at least incredibly handsome."

He gave her a dramatically cross look.

"I like your scolding look."

"I imagine you'll be seeing a lot of it, you're so very naughty."

She raised an eye brow at him.

"That was not meant to be dirty." She giggled enthusiastically. "Oh, just c'mon," he said, smiling at her as he took her hand in his to lead her to the bedroom. "It's a good thing you'll be reading. It'll keep you quiet."

"That's what you think."

♥♥ 

He accompanied her in reading as they both lay under the large fluffy duvet. Clara sighed contentedly. "You are right, your bed is a lot more comfortable." Slowly, inch by inch, she moved closer to him until she was sidled up right next to him. The Doctor peered at her from the side of his glasses. She could feel his gaze on her even though she couldn't see it. She looked up. "Yes?" she asked, innocently.

"Your pillow is over there," he pointed with his head.

"But I like yours."

"My shoulder is not a pillow."

She shrugged.

"I can't move my arm to hold the book with you against me."

She shrugged again.

"Fine! C'mere." He lifted the arm she was resting on and she moved the few more inches that would allow her, now that the barrier of his arm was removed, to rest her head on his chest as she lay on her back. He wound his arm around the middle of her side where he could now hold up his book and turn the pages as she lay reading her book underneath.

"Hmmm, yes, the bed is indeed a lot more comfortable."

He smiled to himself as she giggled softly.

♥♥ 

Clara was the first to fall asleep, lowering her book by her side, turning to nestle against his side, her arm draped round his middle. He didn't say anything to her but continued reading before taking off his glasses, resting them on the stand beside him where he also turned off the light, leaving the room in pitch blackness. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the top of her head and then very softly he murmured against her hair: "Good night, Clara Oswald." 


	11. Chapter 11

"First thing's first. You do not talk unless the judge asks you a question. Before we go in the court room we will be held in a room with Danny. Do not speak to him. I will ask the Doctor to explain what he saw the night Danny manhandled you. Then I'll do my thing and it'll be over."

"What if the judge doesn't rule in my favour?" Clara asked, looking at Missy standing in front of her, dressed in an all black power suit with stilettos to match that were so high she was surprised she could walk in them without falling over.

"He won't. Now let's get this over with. I have a lunch date with someone who makes more money in one year than you ever will in your lifetime."

"Way to feel important," Clara murmured, following behind her, just like, she thought, a dutiful puppy. She was looking forward to getting this over with, not only so she would never see her psychopathic ex again -- but also so she wouldn't have to depend on Missy who so clearly disliked her. Although, she may still have to see Missy, that is if the Doctor still wants to see her after this.

The last two days had gone by quickly. Rose had given her the rest of the week off from work. Clara had protested -- she made only enough as it was to pay for her rent and food -- but after hearing what she had been through she insisted, giving Clara in advance the wages she would have made for that week.

"You have been the best employee I've ever had. Courteous and hard working. You've hardly taken any time off since you started. In fact, take the weekend off too. You can come back on Monday if you feel up to it. Just let me know."

It wasn't until Clara arrived at the Doctor's flat after speaking to Rose that she remembered she had told Amy she would go to Paris with them this weekend, so it was a good thing Rose suggested she take the weekend off too. She hoped the Doctor was still planning on coming with them to Paris. It would give her more time to ascertain his feelings for her, for despite their intimate encounter two days ago there had been no sexual adventures between them since.

The two days between then and now were spent very pleasantly. They visited the British Museum, what they had planned the night Danny assaulted her -- and, "as promised," the Doctor said, handing her a CD, "here are all my favourite Beethoven compositions." But instead of listening to it alone in her bedroom as she probably would have done if events had gone as initially planned she sat in the Doctor's flat with the music playing over the many speakers positioned around the room, a glass of wine in her hand, the Doctor beside her. He put his arm around her at one point and they sat half reclined on the sofa for an hour, maybe more, as they watched through the window the rain fall -- only that which was illuminated by the street light against the night sky -- Clara curled up against him.

But there had been no touching, except that which was innocent, during such times as when he allowed her to settle against him while they watched a movie, or as they slept-- she did sleep beside him the last two nights -- when the Doctor curled up against her, the feel of his breath warm against the back of her neck. Both these times she fell asleep so quickly, lulled by the feeling of him holding her, that she did not even have time to question whether he wished things to proceed more intimately. When she awoke in the morning, he was already dressed and drinking coffee.

She didn't try to be more intimate with him. He didn't say anything to her about what had happened. She didn't either, fearing that if she brought it up he would recoil into himself, declare what had happened was wrong, that he didn't want this kind of relationship with her. She feared rejection and, worse still, knowing for sure that he would never allow her to be really close with him again. So she allowed herself only to hope, to anticipate.

Only yesterday she thought he was going to kiss her, when they were in Hyde Park, looking at the newly blossomed flowers on a sunny June morning. He came behind her to point out a particular flower with a funny name and as he did his arm wrapped around her shoulder so when she looked back at him he was only inches away from her, those fascinating blue eyes staring down into her own. Later she would wonder if she imagined it but she thought she saw him inch closer to her before he quickly pulled back, removing his arm from her to remark on a flower with not such a funny name this time. And then they went home and he made her a dinner of bangers and mash. They watched some innocuous comedy show on Channel 4 that had them both laughing and Clara remembered with a pang that tomorrow was her court date -- tomorrow she would be granted her freedom -- but by relieving her of one burden she would acquire another, for she would now have no reason to stay with him.

She viewed him now as they both stood in the small room in the court building, Missy to the side looking at her perfectly manicured nails with extreme boredom as he looked out the window, clad in a suit, hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels back and forth, occasionally taking a hand out of his pocket to run it through his hair.

"Are you nervous?" she asked, approaching him.

"A little. Not for me, for you."

"I thought you trusted Missy."

"Yes, I do. I'm just a worrier."

"I think it will go fine." She took his hand in hers and he clasped his hand over it.

The door opened. They both watched as Danny walked in, alone. He looked around at all present, stopping at Clara holding the Doctor's hand, and then sat down at a table in the corner as far away from them as he could.

"He doesn't have anyone to represent him," she whispered to the Doctor. "He's not even wearing a suit."

He nodded, releasing his hand from hers, as Danny glared at them from the corner. Just then a court official announced that they could proceed to the court room.

Missy was right. It lasted all of a few minutes. The judge asked the Doctor a few questions about the night he saw Danny manhandle her. Clara spoke briefly about his jealousy and the night he punched her, although MIssy was correct that the judge could not allow it -- it was considered hearsay since she did not report the abuse. But Missy, who had been barely animate earlier, put on the show of a lifetime, using all kinds of technical jargon Clara had never heard, walking back and forth in long strides as she did so, approaching the bench at one point to gaze pointedly at the judge with a raised eye brow. The Doctor had told her once that Missy had connections with everyone and could bend them to her will with only one word. Clara then wondered if it was possible for her to do so with just a raised eyebrow. For just then the judge cut in and said, "I've heard enough. Mr. Pink, from the time you leave this court room you are not allowed within 100 yards of Clara Oswald, if, for instance, she's in Blackpool visiting family or friends. As you are aware that she lives in London you are not to set foot within the city itself for one year. After this year, you can ask for a new hearing, at which point we can consider lowering the limit. That is all," and with an exasperated bang of his gavel he quickly left the room for his chambers.

"That's a bit much, don't you think?"

"Yes," the Doctor answered Clara. "But let's not think too much on it. He won't be allowed in London. You have back the life you have worked so hard for this last year. You don't have to be worried anymore."

"I can resume life like normal," she responded, thinking back to what he had said to her what now seemed a long time ago.

She wanted to avoid bumping into Danny on the way out of the court house so she watched him as he left, feeling as she did a moment of sadness, not for him, but for herself, for believing him to be someone he was not, despite all the little signs he gave throughout their short relationship that told her otherwise. This sadness turned to anger for not realizing that his controlling behaviour would end up being so corrosive. With Danny no longer in her view, she looked at the man standing beside her. The Doctor was kind and gentle and funny and she had never been happier and more content in her life as she had been with him this last week. And yet put Danny and him side by side, without giving any description of eithers' character, and many would exclaim her better suited with Danny.

"Clara!" They were now outside and Amy came running up to them, enfolding Clara in a huge hug that almost had her falling to the ground, the Doctor putting a supporting hand on her back to prevent it. "I'm so sorry. I'm just very excited to see you."

"Yes, I can tell that," Clara laughed.

"How did it go?"

"Very well. I got the restraining order."

"Pheww, that is good. Hopefully that'll be the last of him. Although it did provide a reason for you to two to have some time together," she said, looking meaningfully toward Clara and the Doctor. "Anyway, everything is set for this weekend. I've brought your tickets for the Eurostar." She handed them each one ticket. "Don't loose your ticket! And be early so you don't miss the train. It's going to be so much fun!! Now I have to run across town to meet Rory to pick out china."

"Isn't that usually the first thing you do when you move in together as a couple?" Clara humorously asked.

"Oh, we went the week after we married. And then again the week after that. And the week after that. In all, I'd say we've been to pick out china some 25 times. We can never agree on what to get, but I have a good feeling about today. Today is the day! I think...yes, today will be it...probably...maybe." And with a confused look on her face she left them.

"Oh, Amy," Clara remarked.

"Gotta love her," the Doctor joined.

"Speaking of that...you and Amy." 

"Me and Amy?" he asked, looking down at her.

"You never wanted anything to happen between you and her?"

"Oh, God no!" He exclaimed, looking genuinely disgusted.

"She's very pretty, and fun."

"She's a child. No, I've never and could never think of her in that way."

"Hmm." Clara took a deep breath and made to change the subject. "Where has Missy got to?"

"Gone, I presume. Off to lunch with the hobnobs."

"Oh, I wanted to thank her."

"She wouldn't want it. It's fine."

"I hope she doesn't expect something from you for having done this. You know, something that isn't monetary."

He chuckled. "She won't. I mean, she might wish it, I suppose, but she doesn't expect it. Beneath her diabolical exterior she can be quite simple. We go back a long time, we are friends despite how very different both of us are, and she would help me out any time I needed her, and I would do the same for her."

"Well, I would still watch out of her."

"I will heed your caution," he smiled down at her. "Now, how about we get some lunch to celebrate your new found freedom?"

He put his hand on her back to lead her across the street and Clara, looking to the right, saw Danny leaning against the court house building, watching them, a sarcastic smirk on his lips that sent a shiver up her spine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update! Hoping the next chapter won't take as long because it should prove to be very interesting... :)


	12. Chapter 12

"So has anything happened? Yes?! You are blushing, that must mean yes."

"Please, Amy, be quiet. He's right over there."

"Don't worry, I'm not going to announce to the whole train that you had sex with the Doctor. Plus, Rory is distracting him with some video game on his phone."

"Not sex."

"Not sex?"

"No."

"Then why the blushing?"

"He..."

"He, what?"

Clara looked downwards; Amy's gaze followed.

"Oh!"

"Yes."

"Well, that's...did _you_ do anything?"

"No, he wouldn't let me."

"Ever the gentleman."

"I wanted very much to. And we haven't talked about it. He hasn't brought it up and I'm too afraid to."

"So it just happened spontaneously?"

"I may have encouraged him, as it were..."

"Good for you!" Amy enthused, hitting her good-heartedly on the arm with the back of her hand. "But he hasn't said anything about it?"

Clara shook her head.

"He is thoroughly aggravating. I swear if he doesn't declare his undying love for you this weekend I'm going to take my biggest purse containing the largest book I can find and hit him over the head with it. Maybe that'll wake him up."

Clara gave her a disapproving look.

"Fine, a medium sized purse filled with several smutty trade paperbacks.

River, you know, left him so suddenly, her only reason being that she wanted to find adventures elsewhere, consequently leaving him with this idea that he isn't exciting or interesting enough. I wish so much I knew where she was so I could tell her off. I'd hit her over the head with that big purse of hardcover books, no hesitation at all."

"Oh, I have no doubt," Clara giggled, allowing this once the fantasy of a misdeed against a woman with whom she too was feeling deep dislike.

"And here you come along, beautiful, intelligent, and most of all much younger than him -- someone with whom he should never under any circumstances fall in love with -- adding even more reason for him to feel like he doesn't deserve you. But you and I both know that you are exactly what he deserves. Now we just have to convince him of that." 

"We?"

"Mostly you."

"Amy, please tell me you don't have any tricks up your sleeve. And don't give me your angelic look. It may work on the Doctor (and no doubt Rory) but I know better."

"Men can't resist a good girl, especially when she suddenly turns bad."

"Well that answers my question -- you really do own a bunch of smutty trade paperbacks."

"Oh yeah, a whole book shelf of them. I have one with me now," she shared, pulling it out of her bag. Holding it up as though it were a great theatrical work she dramatically began: _"'He was a stable boy, she the only daughter of the richest man in Texas. They have one night of passion under the stars but Lulu is expected to marry another--"_

"Lulu?" Clara chuckled.

"Yeah,' Amy said, all seriousness. _'--a rich oil magnet whose only passion is for money. Will the beautiful heiress and the untamed stable boys' love be fully realised or will they be forced to surrender to their preordained fate?"'_

"Oh, God, Amy's reading of her bodice-rippers," Rory supplied to the Doctor as they sat down across from them.

"More of a blouse ripper. It's set in the 1950's."

"Do they end up together?" Rory asked.

"Of course they do."

Rory guffawed. "If only real life was like that."

"Oi! Hello, your soulmate, whom you love and adore and cannot believe your lucky stars you ended up with."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about her."

Amy stuck her tongue out at him. He took her hands across the table separating them and kissed the back of her hand.

"See, we prove that true love really can triumph after all," Amy said, gazing longingly into her husbands eyes.

At the sight of their affection Clara grew uneasy, picking at her nails, trying to avoid looking at the Doctor sitting directly across from her. A short time later Amy and Rory were still locking hands as they discussed where they would spend the day in Paris.

"Where are you two venturing to today?" Amy's voice broke through Clara's tormented thoughts.

"I wanted to go the Louvre and the Musee D'orsay," she replied.

"Oh, Doctor that sounds right up your alley, or should I say: _allée_."

"Would you like to come along with me?" Clara asked, tentatively, finally looking at him.

"Okay. I didn't have any other plans. I'm not really sure what I'm doing here, to be honest."

"Does one need a reason to be in Paris?" Amy enthused. " _Joie de vivre_ , Doctor. One day you'll learn what that means."

He owlishly looked out the window as the French countryside whizzed by. 

♥♥ 

"Are you going to be moody the whole time we are here? This is my first time in Paris and I for one intend on enjoying it." Clara looked pointedly at the Doctor as they walked in the direction of their Airbnb.

"I suppose I can try to be more..." He was at a loss for an adjective.

"Not an ass?"

"Uh...yeah."

"Besides, you know that Amy will not leave you alone until you at least pretend you aren't having the worst time in your life."

"You do have a point there."

Clara took his hand and shook it.

"Listen, as soon as we drop off our bags we'll run away, have a _petit dejeuner_ , look at some beautiful works of art, and enjoy the scenery of arguably one of the most beautiful cities in the world. That can't be too bad, right?"

"Running away with you?" he asked, stopping to look down at her, all grave seriousness. "No, that is not difficult."

"Oi! Love birds, keep up!" Amy yelled from several yards away.

The Doctor groaned. "The sooner we run away, the better." Clara fell against his shoulder with laughter. 

♥♥ 

"This is it!!" Amy exclaimed, running up to the house situated just on the outskirts of Paris. An older couple stood on the steps.

" _Parlez-vous Anglais_?" Amy asked them. The older woman shook her head. "Oh my, well this should be interesting. _Je suis Amy Pond_ , we stay here this weekend," she said, pointing first at herself and then the house.

" _Oui, oui_!" The lady handed over two sets of keys, and smiled jubilantly at the four of them assembled, speaking in hurried French to her husband, who sat quietly by her side as if used to her prattling.

"That's Amy and Rory in 40 years," Clara whispered to the Doctor. He discreetly chuckled.

"Now, Amy, didn't you say there would be other people joining us?" Clara asked as they entered the house.

"Uh, yes, I did...but they couldn't make it," she said very quickly. "Oh, look, this place is charming!"

Now it was the Doctor's time to whisper to Clara. "How much do you want to bet that there were never other people coming?"

"OK, so there is a slight bit of a hiccup," Amy announced, coming back to them after taking a wander around the place.

"Uh huh," said the Doctor, not bothering to mask his lack of surprise. "And what would that be?" 

Clara looked toward Rory -- her first reaction to anything Amy said that sounded suspicious-- and sure enough he was feigning intense curiosity at a set of miniature glass figurines lined up on a book shelf near them.

"Well, see, the thing is that originally we were going to have other friends join us--"

He was now attempting to pick up one of the figurines to examine its underside.

"--but they had to back out last minute due to...other commitments, so we had to book a less expensive place--"

Two more figurines were dislodged.

"--I didn't know it when I booked it, but, well,--"

One of the figurines dangled precariously near the edge of his hand.

"--there's only two bedrooms."

And fell to the ground, crashing into tiny shards. 

"Rory!" Amy yelled behind her.

"Oh, man, did the old people see that?" He said, turning a full 180.

"Well, I'll finally find out if Rory is a snorer," the Doctor said, picking up his bag to find one of the bed rooms.

"Wait, no," Amy began, running after him. "I'm sleeping with my husband."

"And so that means that I'll have to share a room with Clara, right?" He turned, giving her a menacing stare.

"Listen, I didn't know, OK. I mean, maybe they have like a blow up mattress or something. Do they have those in France?" she said, her voice growing tinier and tinier.

"There's a sofa over there, I can sleep on that," Clara supplied, her voice stern but also wavering.

"No, not this again," the Doctor said. "You are not sleeping on a sofa. I'll sleep on the sofa."

"It's too small. Why is it that no one makes full sized sofa's anymore?" she practically yelled in frustration. "I'll sleep on the sofa, end of discussion. Now I'm going to freshen up," and she hurriedly left the room.

The Doctor took a deep breath.

"I'll talk to her," Amy said.

Defiantly the Doctor said, "No, I will," and left the room.

He passed the open bathroom, but Clara was not there. He passed one of the bedrooms, but that too was vacant. Finally, on the other side of the house, he found her in the second bedroom, the door mostly but not all the way closed so that he lightly knocked on it before entering.

"Amy, I'll be fine, I'm just tired. I haven't been sleeping very well the past two days."

"It's not Amy," the Doctor's voice bellowed in the tiny room.

"Oh," Clara exclaimed, rising from the bed, a few tears displayed on her face.

He had his hands in his pockets -- as always -- and was leaning against the door frame. He was so beautiful, she thought. His hair had become greyer, she was certain, but it was also longer, thicker, more unkempt and, to her, more captivating. He now ran a hand through his hair-- as always -- his fingers not even visible in the fullness of it, then walked toward her, sitting beside her on the front of the bed.

"You haven't been sleeping?"

She shook her head.

"Are you worried about Danny?"

"No, mercifully."

"Then why the lack of sleep?"

"I don't know."

"Clara..."

She bravely looked up at him, fighting back the fresh set of tears that were threatening release."I know I only stayed with you for a week but coming back to my apartment I felt like I had been gone for months. My bedroom seemed so foreign to me, so cold and lifeless. I didn't feel comfortable there. Not like I was afraid of anything untoward happening, like Danny showing up again, but as if I had entered someone else's bedroom. It didn't feel like mine, even though all my possessions were there." She paused, then began in a quieter voice, "And then, I miss having someone beside me, _you_ \--" more breath than word "--beside me -- holding me -- while I sleep."

With the back of his hand he wiped away the fresh tears running down her cheeks.

"Oh, Clara Oswald, what are we going to do with you?" he sighed, keeping his hand on her cheek long after the tears had been cleared. "I won't let you sleep on that sofa."

"Won't let me, huh?"

"I absolutely refuse. And I can't fit it. So I suppose the only solution is..." But he could not finish the sentence. No matter, he knew Clara understood, for now she smiled, her dimples displayed in full brilliance where moments ago there stood tears.

He released his hand from her cheek, then offered the same to help her rise from the bed. "You do know," the Doctor began, "that Amy is going to spend the rest of the weekend gloating."

Clara took his hand and kept it in hers as they walked out of the room. " _C'est la vie_. It's Amy's world, and we only live in it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special guest appears in the next chapter. Any guess as to who it may be?
> 
> Hint: It's someone we haven't seen before.


	13. Chapter 13

Clara and the Doctor roamed through the Louvre commenting on their favourite paintings and sculptures as they went. The Doctor's reverence of art that she had previously only been given a glimpse into when he spoke of the Vettriano print hanging in his flat was fully unveiled to her. He had a wealth of knowledge about every painting they passed. He said it was a hobby of his, but she suspected it was more than that. He expressed his admiration with such eloquence and passion as one would talking of a significant other or ones own talent which led her to believe that that these paintings were a vessel through which he could express his untainted, ecstatic joy for life, a view that was, outside the immutable walls of the museum, in the unrelenting cruelty of ones own uncertain life, necessarily more shrewd and tempered.

Now they were walking through the Tuileres. It was a clear day and the garden's flowers swayed lightly in the intermittent breeze. Her pinkie finger was wrapped around the corresponding finger of his. She had initiated this without being aware of it. She supposed she had done it because it was something her and her mother used to do when they walked side by side in the park near their home in Blackpool. Only after a couple seconds passed -- seconds where he perhaps wondered at her gesture -- did he accept it, curling his finger tightly around hers. She was thankful he did not recoil from her gesture; not only because she relished being near him in any minor capacity but also because it was something she had last done with her mother, the day before she died, and so the pain at his refusal would have been two-fold. As they continued walking, her finger curled around his, a warmth consumed her and she felt a prickling of happy tears in her eyes. He would never realise the significance, the comfort, she received from him simply curling his finger around hers.

But then ever since her tearful confession to him in her bedroom -- their bedroom -- at the Airbnb his mood had improved considerably. Not only no longer moody but considerate, warm, and teasing. In the room in the Louvre housing the Mona Lisa he dared her to take a photo of the painting -- strictly prohibited, enforced by the guards stood around the room to stop anyone from doing so -- and when she chickened out he walked over to the guard nearest them to ask him something innocuous so she could quickly take the photo without notice. When she did and he came back they both started giggling and half-ran out of the room, passing the guard he had been speaking to, a confused look on his face as he watched them go.

She was thinking of this as they stood in the park watching the many children before them sat cross legged on the bright green grass, their attention rapt on a puppet show in front of them.

"You know we could have been kicked out of the museum," Clara remarked.

"No, I don't think so. They would have just made us delete the photo."

"Why don't they want people to have a photo of it? Everyone knows what the Mona Lisa looks like."

"They don't want people using flash photography. It destroys the canvas."

"Oh, I didn't think of that," Clara said, aghast. "But I didn't use flash."

"I know, I made sure your flash wasn't on before I went over to the guard."

"Why did you do that, distract the guard so I could take the photo?"

"Why not," he said, looking mischievous. "It was fun."

"Fun, yes, but against the rules. You don't seem like a rule breaker."

"How do you know that? You've only really known me for a little over a week. And besides, looks are deceiving."

"Yes, you are right there," she said, thinking about the man who had sold them their tickets. When she explained to him that they were tourists from England he remarked that it was nice to see a father and daughter travelling together. She shook the thought from her mind, still as disturbing to her now as when it occurred a few hours before.

"That being so, I don't believe you are usually reckless. But you are right, I don't know much about you. You don't like to talk about yourself, do you? Is it because you want to appear mysterious?"

"No. There's just not much to tell."

"Well, everyone has parents. What about yours?"

The children before them began to laugh as one puppet knocked into another, causing the two to begin wrestling one another. As Clara laughed at the sight before her -- the puppets and the children's evident joy -- he answered

"My father and mother were dairy farmers."

"Dairy farmers? I thought at least one of your parents would have been a professor." 

"No," he chuckled. "Far from it. Neither went to university, although my mother attended a village school and was well read. Her father owned the farm. He passed away shortly after she married. Her mother had died when she was very young and she had no brothers, so she and my father took over the farm."

"That must have been a beautiful place to grow up." 

"Yes, beautiful. I had many happy moments there, especially in the Spring, watching the calves being born, running through the meadows filled with wildflowers, simply being out in the warm air, after such a long, cold winter. It looked and was at times idyllic. However, the farm itself was in disrepair when my parents acquired it and it took them many years to build back up. Even ten years after they took it over -- I was then still a child -- they had enough to keep the farm going, but not much else besides. My father worked 12 hour days, hiring as few people as he could to off-set costs. As I grew older I assisted him. He wasn't what you would call a loving father. He never expressed affection. I never heard him tell my mother that he loved her. But then he was not violent, he very rarely raised his voice either at her or me, even when in my teenage years I was not the most obedient of son's. There was only one time that he was very upset with me. I was in my early twenties. He wanted me to enlist in the Scottish National Liberation Army--"

"They advocated for independence from the U.K," Clara supplied.

"Yes, more specifically they were a militant group, terrorists really. They blackmailed and threatened those in power as a means to gain power for themselves, power they would use to secede and create an independent government. Of course they were unsuccessful. Many today even claim that they never existed. But my father had heard of them. He had always been a vociferous, outspoken, advocate for Scottish independence, although he never actively sought out any means of participating in its realisation. But now he was convinced that he could do his part. However, he could not do it himself -- he had the farm, his and his wife's only living, to secure, and he had begun to ail in health. But his son, young and able-bodied, was just the sort the army wanted. He found out who one of the ring leaders of the organisation was and had him come to the farm to speak to me without my father explaining beforehand who he was. The man was in his thirties, kind, ingratiating, a very good sales man -- a very good propagandist, is what I would later think, once my father, not the most eloquent or convincing of speakers, explained further what the army represented.

I had been home schooled by my mother but had read every history book that was available at the local library. I knew, even if both my father and this man had omitted it, that their endeavour was one that could only be accomplished through bloodshed. So I refused to go. My father was disappointed in me. The man from the army came back, this after several days of my father trying to convince me to change my mind, and I told him that he would be leaving without me. That night my father, for the first time ever, raised his voice to me. I can't now remember exactly what he said but it was not, I can assure you, affectionate. I left the farm that night. I walked to the center of town, waiting until daylight, and used what little money I had made from the farm to buy a train ticket. I arrived in London the next day. I had cousins there from my mothers side. We had written each other often. They had asked me to visit them, sending me their address in case I ever decided to do so. I stayed with my mother's sister for several years, got a temp job at a publishing agency and once I finished university I was given a small editorial job there, which I did during the day while attending graduate school classes at night. Then I acquired my PhD and started teaching."

The puppet show had ended a few minutes before and they were now alone sat on the grass facing one another.

"Did you ever go back to the farm?" Clara asked.

"No," he replied simply.

"Did you ever speak to your father again?"

"Only once. My mother called every week to find out how I was doing. When I made enough money to send some back home I asked her if she wanted to visit me in London but she said she couldn't leave my father. His eye sight by that point was very bad, and she had to take over many of the tasks that he had once done himself."

"Do you..." Clara stopped herself. 

"What?" he asked, looking at her.

"I shouldn't ask."

"You clearly want to." He paused, and then said, "I won't be upset with you. What is it?"

"Well, do you ever regret not going back?"

"Yes," he answered frankly. "Not for him -- not that I hated my father, I could never hate my father -- but he and I had never been close, not like I was with my mother. I regretted not going back for her, even perhaps to help on the farm, after father could no longer keep doing it."

"But your mother must have been so proud of you -- going to university, getting your degrees, creating a life for yourself, practically by yourself."

"Yes, she was. But then life is not to be lived only for oneself.

She passed away two years after I received my PhD. It was in the winter. She got pneumonia but the snow was so high that by the time a doctor could get to her her lungs were filled almost completely with fluid. It was so bad that there was no medication they could give to help her. She died that night. But still I didn't go back," he said, his voice now wavering.

"She knew you cared for her. Mothers always do," Clara said, moving closer to him, covering his hands with hers.

"That was the last time I spoke to my father who called to tell me of her passing. He did not express regret for me not being there, for leaving, for never coming back, and so I didn't either. Three days later I received another call, this time from a neighbour. My father had missed his daily round of delivering milk. They went to the farm and found him, in the snow, face down, several feet away from one of the barns. He had been dead for over a day. His leg was broken." The Doctor shook his head incredulously as he said, "it was thought he was trying to repair the roof on the barn that had recently sunken in as a result of the accumulation of snow on the top of it. The damn fool had climbed up there on a ladder and then fallen off. He had pulled himself a few feet through the snow with his broken leg before he either gave up or hypothermia set in. I wish...I wish I had gone back right after hearing of my mothers death, but of course one always wishes these things, after the fact

Clara caressed his hand with her own. "It wasn't your fault, what happened to your father."

"No, I didn't push him off the roof, that's true, and even though you can't predict the future, the truth is, that if I had been there, I probably would have found him in time, or have been able to convince him to not be so foolish as to climb on that roof." He smiled a little, "Sorry, I didn't intend on telling you all of this."

"Thank you."

"Thank me, for what, making a beautiful day suddenly very depressing?"

"For telling me. For trusting me enough to tell me." 

Very lightly she placed her lips on his, kissing him softly, while with her hand she smoothed the errant curls of his grey hair. Moving herself a few inches apart she looked directly into his eyes -- dark blue as of a stormy sea -- and moved to kiss the natural indentations etched on the side of his eyes, first the one side then delicately the other, marks that illuminated the years he had lived and seemed to her then a manifestation of his sorrow. As she looked at him once more she saw his brow furrow, a consequence she surmised of his wrestling with a myriad of emotions. Not wishing to cause him further pain she stood and offered him her hand as earlier during her turmoil he had offered her his, and she smiled at him sweetly as he rose, his features she noticed appearing no longer tormented, only the blue of his eyes containing the same tempestuous luminescence. 

♥♥ 

When they arrived back at the house Amy and Rory were there to greet them. Clara predicted Amy would have ridiculous and funny stories to tell them about their day in Paris, as with her it seemed no matter where she went something unpredictable occurred to her that would only happen to most people once or twice in their lifetime. She expected a dinner at home of wine, cheese, and olives, and an early night spent in bed, with the Doctor, watching unintelligible French television on the old-fashioned T.V. box situated on the dresser in front of the room, and then she would fall asleep, tucked in his arms, the first real sleep since she last slept beside him several days before. This, however, was not how things were going to turn out she realised the moment she took in the sight of her friends.

Amy was dressed in a short black and gold glittery dress, Rory, whom she had never seen in anything other than jeans or nurses scrubs, was fitted in a suit and black trousers, his blonde hair combed back in a perfect quiff.

"You are back!" Amy announced. "I was just going to call your mobiles. Have you had dinner?"

"No, just lunch a few hours ago," Clara replied.

" _Parfait!_ I have made reservations for dinner and then it is drinks at a jazz club afterward. Did you pack a nice dress like I told you?"

Clara nodded in affirmation.

"Good. Change into it. Doctor, you will find in your bedroom a suit for you. I knew you wouldn't want to bring one so I had one made for you -- we still had the measurements when you were in Rory's wedding party. Now, chop-chop, we have twenty minutes to get to the restaurant. Knowing the French, I suspect they will not hold our table for even a minute longer than they need to."

After they had changed -- taking turns turning around so the other would not see them dress, not that she would tell him but a fruitless effort on the Doctor's part, really, as he had already seen her almost completely naked -- Clara remarked:

"You don't seem as upset about this as I thought you would be."

"I knew what I was getting myself into by coming here this weekend. I'm just hoping the blow will be swift and relatively painless."

"Oh, such stoical resignation," Clara laughed, as she went toward him, running her hand through the back of his now slicked back hair, kissing him on the cheek.

Their dinner, at a chic restaurant, was very pleasant. It turned out that Amy did have a few unbelievable stories to tell them about her day -- one including a mime that Clara didn't think she would soon be able to erase from her mind. They left the restaurant cheerful, laughing and stumbling down the _arrondissement_ arm in arm.

It was only a few blocks to the jazz club, LE CHAT SOLITAIRE, situated on a side street so you wouldn't know it was there unless you were specifically looking for it. Even so, Clara couldn't make out any noticeable markings for the club and would have gotten lost entirely if Amy hadn't been leading her by the arm. Clara could tell, the minute they entered, that the Doctor was nervous. He began fumbling with the cuffs of his crisp collared shirt. She immediately suggested they go to the bar. A stiff drink should help calm his and, she had to admit, her own nerves. She wasn't sure what Amy's reason was for coming here but she knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that there was a reason and it was one that was bound to be uncomfortable for all involved -- well, all but the mastermind of it. Clara loved Amy, she believed that she had only the best intentions at heart, but she also knew that these good intentions did not always have a similarly positive outcome.

But then nothing happened. They ordered drinks and sipped them while sitting at a four top table, listening to the sultry tones of a young Parisian woman singing a slow, jazzy tune, and watching the few couples dancing in the front of the room. This transpired for about an hour. Clara began to relax. So too did the Doctor. They were sitting very close to one another as a result of the table being so small. Clara was onto her second drink -- second at the club, fourth all together, as she had two during dinner. Her chin rested on the palm of her hand while she looked up at him as he regaled her with a story. She had to admit she wasn't really listening to his story, not that what he was telling her wasn't interesting -- or maybe it wasn't, she didn't know -- but because she was now feeling quite tipsy and could only focus her attention on one thing at a time and currently that attention was superseded by her fascination at what he was wearing, or, rather, the two buttons that were currently undone on his white collared shirt, revealing to her the top of his chest, which she'd never seen before as normally his collar shirts were buttoned all the way to the top.

The lighting in the club was very low but even so she could clearly see him before her. He is quite skinny, she thought, as she noted the definition of his collar bone, the extenuated dip it made above his bare chest. Of course there were wrinkles, on his throat and further down and she wondered at herself for not finding him less handsome for them. Quite the opposite was true and if she were less drunk she would think more about why she found him more appealing as a result of them, so much so that she wanted to reach out and touch him there. But by this point her thoughts had moved onto a more interesting topic. To her surprise the portion of his chest that she could see was bare. There was no hair as she thought there would be -- he had such a thick, luxurious head of hair (for a man of his age, she added) -- which begged the question of whether he shaved his chest, and if so, what else did he possibly shave?

Clara suddenly began to feel very warm. She fanned herself with a pamphlet advertising that nights performer.

"And then the nun said, I guess you don't really need those apples after all. -- Clara, are you all right? You look a little over heated," he asked, all concern.

"I'm fine, it's just a bit warm in here."

"Hmm, I was just thinking it was really cold."

"Oh, well, maybe I caught a little bit too much sun today," she said, not, she thought, very convincingly. 

"I guess. I hope you aren't coming down with anything." He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. "You don't feel sick, do you?"

"No," she smiled. "But thank you for worrying. Doctor."

"Not that kind of doctor."

"Still, it was very considerate of you."

"Oh, well, I'm really just worried about myself," he said, eyes flashing mischievously. "You see, we're sleeping together the next two days and if you are ill then I'm liable to get ill as well."

"Hmmm, that being the case, I'll try to not get too close to you, but I can't make any promises." She smiled at him, all pretend innocence, and his eyes instantly became half-hooded. She couldn't wait to hear what he would say in response.

But as always, timing was not on their side. 

"Here you are, at last!" Amy announced, holding her arms out to a dark-haired woman approaching their table. "Where were you, I thought you would never show up." 

"I'm so sorry, Amy, my flight was late," the woman said, hugging her. "How are you? Is this Rory?!?" She hugged Rory to within an inch of his life. "Oh my goodness, he's quite gorg!" she enthused, finally releasing him, Rory smoothing the newly formed creases in his suit.

"Everyone, this is Gwen Cooper, a friend of mine who was also studying here at the same time I was," Amy explained, as both Clara and the Doctor shook her hand.

"I felt so bad that I wasn't able to make it to your wedding. But work, you know." 

Amy nodded but neither explained what work it was that prevented her from attending.

"So, how is everyone enjoying Paris?" Gwen asked.

Clara said it was gorgeous. Amy recounted her and Rory's day, but as she did she kept looking behind Gwen to scan the room.

"Um...I thought you were bringing..." Amy began but did not finish.

"Oh, yeah, he's just trying to find a parking space," Gwen replied, looking behind her. "There's absolutely no where to park around here. Oh -- there he is."

Gwen pointed to a man at the entrance to the club who was chatting with one of the bouncers, giving him a dazzling smile as he did, before turning to slowly walk toward their group. He was wearing an American army uniform, tightly fitted on a muscular frame, and he was around her age, Clara noted, of moderate height and very handsome, just what, Clara thought, a young army officer during World War II would look like, or at least a hyper-glamourised movie version of one. And there was that smile again, chiselling his face in a Cary Grant sort of way, as he approached them.

"Jack!" Amy exclaimed, running into his arms.

"Hello, darling," Jack said sweetly, kissing her on the cheek. "And this must be Rory," he said, giving the aforementioned a tenacious shake of the hand before returning his attention to Amy.

"These two are really enthusiastic about their greetings," he whispered to the Doctor as he shook out his sore hand.

"These are two friends of mine. This is the Doctor, well John Smith but he prefers to be called the Doctor. He works at the university with me." Jack shook his hand but then immediately changed focus toward the person sitting next to him.

"And whooo are you?" he drawled, his voice a few octaves lower. Clara extended her hand toward his proffered one but instead of shaking it he lowered himself to place a delicate kiss on the top of it.

"This is my newest and now closest friend Clara Oswald," Amy replied.

"Captain Jack Harkness. Nice to meet you, Clara Oswald," he said, giving her one of his dazzling smiles. Clara giggled in response, smiling back at him. "You have a gorgeous smile," he said, which only made her giggle again.

"Drinks all round, on me?" Jack asked, but before they could respond he was already on his way to the bar. The club was full of a lot more people than when they first arrived and it took some time for him to get to the bar, frequently stopping to chat with some of the strangers, both men and women, he met along the way. 

"Oh, Jack, how I do miss him," Amy sighed. "He's one of a kind."

"He certainly seems so," the Doctor said. "Gwen, are you and he an item?"

"Oh, no, he's just a friend, a very close and dear friend, but only a friend. I have a fiancee back home." 

"Ah," was all the Doctor said in reply

"Whiskey sours for all," Jack announced upon returning, handing each person a glass. "Hope you can hold your whiskey," he said to all, although he was only looking at the Doctor. 

"So, Jack, how do you and Amy know one another?" Clara asked. 

He grabbed an empty seat to sit beside Clara, only an inch away from her now that their already small table was even more crowded. "I was visiting Paris during the time Amy and Gwen were studying here, and now I live here, working at the American consulate."

"Was it fancy dress day at work?" the Doctor asked, narrowing his eyes at him, while taking a large sip of his drink, seeming to barely register the harsh burn of the liquid as it travelled down his throat.

"Ah, no," Jack smiled, although directing the smile toward Clara. "I trained in the American army and am now in charge of ensuring the safety and security of American citizens visiting or living here. Which is no small task with the current threat of terrorist activity in Europe."

"I imagine," Clara said, taking a small sip of her drink, taken back from the strength of it, the taste of it at once delicious and harsh. She wondered how the Doctor was able to take such a large gulp of it without showing any emotion.

"So, are you currently seeing anyone?" Amy asked, looking at Jack.

"Haha. I always loved your directness. No, not at the moment. But who knows, maybe by the end of the night that will change." And once again his gaze focused on Clara. The Doctor was just then taking another large sip of his drink and this time he did respond, coughing loudly. Rory patted his back a few times but the Doctor, rattled, swatted his arm away.

"Anyway, I came here for two things: one, to see my favourite red head again--"

"You're only red-head," Gwen butted in.

"Oh, what little you know, Gwen." Jack winked at her. "And two, to dance!" he enthused, rising from his seat and walking toward Amy. "So what do you say, Mrs. Pond, care for a Charleston or two.

"Do I ever!" Amy laughed, taking his hand as they rushed to the dance floor.

Rory raised an eyebrow to the Doctor. Clara, sobering, tried to keep a conversation going between the three of them but due to the sour moods of the two men present (as sour as the drinks they were consuming) she found it difficult to find anything interesting to talk about. She asked Gwen about her job but she wasn't very forthcoming -- saying only that she worked in an office -- but when Clara asked, blithely, what office job would require her to travel so much, she said kindly but with finality "we have offices all around the world."

Jack and Amy returned, gasping for breath and sweaty

"Oh, Jack, I'm going to have take a few Spin classes before seeing you again."

"Now, who's next?" Jack asked, looking at all assembled, stopping on Clara. "What about you, Clara Oswald, have you ever done the Charleston?"

"I can't say that I have."

"Well, everyone has to have a first time," he said, looking at her but with the briefest of glances catching the eye of the Doctor. 

He extended his hand out to her but she did not immediately take it. "I'm really not much of a dancer."

"Don't worry, I'm a brilliant teacher," Jack boasted, taking her hand to lead her to the dance floor.

"So, Gwen, tell me, have you and Rhys finally set a date for the wedding?"

Gwen and Amy chatted on their own, leaving the Doctor and Rory sat by themselves.

"He's kind of an ass. I'm right, right?" Rory asked.

"He certainly is very sure of himself."

"I want to like him. Amy loves him; won't stop raving about him, which at first made me wonder if he and her were ever...you know...but she assures me that never happened."

The Doctor sat back, his arms crossed on his chest, as he watched Jack attempt to teach Clara the Charleston. She got a step wrong and fell against him laughing. 

"I think he's what women call charming."

They danced two songs together, Clara finally getting a handle on the steps, and then the music changed. The singer from before returned and the music that had been boisterous and fast-paced for the last hour turned slow and romantic. The Doctor thought Clara and Jack would return to the table but they remained on the dance floor. He watched as Jack moved in closer to her, putting his arm tightly around her waist and she, hesitant at first, moved in closer as well, almost resting her head on his shoulder.

Now the Doctor sat up taller, uncrossing his arms. It seemed to him as though Jack was talking to her, speaking against her ear. As they turned with the music he saw her smile sweetly. Even from here he could see her dimples. And then Jack pulled back slightly to look at her, forcing her to look up at him.

"Looks like he's going to attempt a move," Rory remarked, and before the Doctor was even aware of it he had leapt out of his seat. 

Clara was enjoying herself. Oh, yes, it was partially aided by the whiskey that she believed she could actually feel coursing through her veins, but also it was because she was in Paris, in a jazz club made to look as though it really was the 1920's -- a time in history she had always loved -- and she was dancing with a handsome young man in uniform. How could it be any more perfect? Well, she thought, as Jack twirled her around, it could be more perfect. But as she had taught herself a long time ago life was made for living as it was, right here in the minute, not for ruining it by wishing for more than you had. So she would enjoy Jack's easy-going nature as he taught her the Charleston and his assiduous efforts to make her laugh when she missed a step. She would delight in being so close to the stage that she could feel the vibrations of the music under her feet and hear all around her the brassy notes of the trombone and then later the entrancing sultry voice of the singer.

"The singers voice is almost as beautiful as you," Jack whispered in her ear as they slow danced. She smiled at the compliment but could not think of a reply. And then he separated himself from her, although still with his hand on her arm, and she looked up at him and realised as he looked down at her that he meant for something to happen, and then she felt panic because the only thing he could want to occur was the one thing she did not want to happen, not with him, not with all these people surrounding them, not with the one person she knew was watching them looking on. She saw him smile and his eyes positively twinkle and just as she thought he was going to lean in to kiss her she felt hands grasping her waist from behind her.

"It is time to leave," a voice said, low and harsh all at once -- authoritative -- a voice she recognised instantly and that sent pleasurable chills down her spine.

Jack removed his hand from her arm. "If you wanted to dance with the lady, you only had to ask," he said, winking at Clara before walking away, instantly lost in the crowd of people.

She turned. 

"Why is it time to leave?" she asked the Doctor, craning her neck to look up at him, so much taller was he than Jack. 

"It is late...we are both tired," he said, although it came out more like a question.

"I don't want to go home. I want to dance."

"Well, then I suppose you should run after your young sailor."

"He is not a sailor and _you_ scared him away." 

"He must not be as tough as he seems." 

"Besides, what I really want, is to dance with you." She moved his hand back on her waist. "And don't protest or else..." 

"Or else, what," he smirked at her

"Or else...I'll steal all the covers in the middle of the night and you'll wake up cold and shivering." 

"I very much doubt that will happen," he said, covering her hand with his own, leading her in a dance as the singer sang La Vie en Rose behind them.

"Why do you doubt that? I have been told I am quite the blanket stealer." 

He pulled her closer to him so that his lips lightly grazed her ear. "Because I will be holding you close to me all night."

She sighed, allowing her head to fall against his chest, her eyes closing as the silky strands of his voice and the purport of his words washed over her.

He held her against him for the remainder of the song and then throughout the next three until, among the crush of people, they were less dancing than he was rocking her back and forth, his head now placed against her own. He kissed the soft tendrils of hair on her head and she slowly looked up at him and he felt then as though they were the only two people there. Caressing her cheek he tilted her chin up toward him and then heard, behind him, someone say, "Do you two want to stay? We were going to head back home." And then the Doctor looked behind him with what Clara surmised was not a very warm look, as Amy, bashful, responded, "Oh, sorry, was I interrupting something?"

♥♥ 

"Did you have fun today?" the Doctor asked Clara where they were now esconsced in their bedroom after saying goodnight to Amy and Rory.

"Very much so."

"You seemed to enjoy the jazz club most of all." 

"I don't know," she shrugged. "I quite liked the Louvre." 

"I thought Jack was an interesting fellow." 

Clara smiled to herself. 

"Very much so."

"Is that your new favourite phrase?"

"Do you want to watch some telly before bed?"

"Do you not want to talk about Jack?" he asked, ignoring her as she had ignored him.

"What is there to talk about?" 

"Well, I don't know, that he seemed to fancy you and you seemed to enjoy him teaching you how to dance."

"So you were watching us? I thought you were."

"So when you smiled and laughed at him you knew I was watching?"

"I can do what I like, with whomever I like," she responded adamantly, stubbornly.

Slowly, the Doctor replied, "I have never said you cannot. I believe I even quoted Charlotte Bronte once in approbation of your independence. But...Clara...you know not how your actions affect me," he said in such a way that it seemed it was almost painful for him to say it.

"Do they? I don't think anything I do affects you much."

"Is that right?" He glared at her, slowly moving toward her.

"I wonder if there are any English channels," she said, hurriedly picking up the remote near the nightstand but before she could turn on the television he crossed the short divide between them, taking from her hand the remote, lightly tossing it across the room.

"Maybe it is time I showed you how you affect me." 

He waited only a couple of seconds -- seconds during which she could have protested against what he thought he made clear he wanted to do -- but she did not, she only stood looking up at him with those lovely doe-like eyes, eyes that he knew then would always be his siren song; any scruples he had would always be lost the moment he looked into them, especially as they were now, tremulous but wanting. He was calm during these seconds. He did not move, he did not speak, he did not betray any emotion. And then, when those seconds were over, he lifted his hand to cup her cheek and without further hesitation kissed her with fierce abandon. When once he had waited for her to lead now he would be the leader, kissing her open-mouthed and deeply, not waiting for her to join, although he realised, despite his then lack of a capacity for reason, that she did, that she matched him kiss for kiss, that wherever he led she followed. 

He broke his kiss from her lips, for which he received a little humpf of protest, but only to kiss her cheek, then along her jawline, and finally to leave little kisses along her throat for which she obligingly tilted her head ever so slightly for him to gain better access. The dress she was wearing contained the tiniest straps and as his progression lowered he used his teeth, lightly grazing her shoulder, to move and lower one of the straps. He kissed the inch of flesh on her shoulder that had hitherto been hidden, the strap left dangling along her arm, almost exposing the soft, round flesh for which purpose it was to assist in sheltering. He brought his hand to the other strap, resting delicately upon her shoulder, and with his long fingers curled underneath the thin piece he slowly moved it to the side. Her breath caught as, out of the corner of her eye, she saw his movements. She knew what would be the consequence of the loss of the second strap. But even when, from his doing, it fell from her shoulder, his fingers held firmly onto it.

"Do you want this?" he asked, his voice raspy.

Breathless, she said, "Yes, I do." 

"Do you know what I am asking?"

"Yes, and I want it. Very much so," and she smiled a little and he smirked back, his eyes seductive but teasing.

"Oh, I am quite fond of your new catchphrase." 

With a flourish of his hand he dropped the strap, the dress following suit, pooling among her ankles.

He had already gathered as much, -- the dress was made of such flimsy material -- that she was not wearing a bra. He had seen most of her the night they were last intimate, the only time they had been intimate, except for her breasts which he didn't need to view to know they would be one of the most beautiful sights he would ever see in his life.

"And so they are," he whispered reverently to himself on a sigh, once lowering his gaze to take in the sight of her.

"No painter could capture your beauty," he remarked, but it seemed less to her than to an invisible audience, as though they were in a gallery and she, stood straight against the white wall behind her as she was, were a real-life Mona Lisa poised against a blank canvas. 

He lifted a tremulous hand to her breast, so silky smooth, his thumb skimming along its already hardened peak. Falling against her, placing his forehead against hers -- overcome -- he kept his view and hand on her breast, milky white, soft, spreading out so fully on either side of her chest while he continued massaging first one then the other as Clara voiced her approval with little mews, her breath skimming along his lips with each sigh. She moved her head to kiss him and he, determined to continue the role of leader, returned the kiss double fold. If that were not enough to show her who was boss he took the hand not kneading her breast and shoved it in her black thong, an article of clothing that upon his notice of it had made him instantly hard. 

She was already dripping wet.

With a few movements of his fingers against her he was able to gather enough wetness to lubricate her clit and then he moved against her -- not with one finger, not with two, but with his whole hand, rubbing, hard, back and forth. It took only a minute before she was pleading with him to rub even more firmly, to precipitate her much desired release. At her request, however, he instantly removed his hand, now drenched with her wetness, a drop of it, she saw, falling from his finger to the carpeted ground below. She had images of him penetrating her with those still wet fingers but, her plea for release denied, she would gather her pleasure in other things. 

"I am almost completely undressed and you, sir, are not." 

She tugged his belt from its belt buckle, released the stem from the notch and with one long pull sent the belt clattering to the floor, all the while her gaze was mesmerized on the evidence of his arousal peaking against his trousers. She gulped and felt herself become newly wet. She made to unbutton his trousers too but it was then he stilled her hand with his own. She had been expecting it.

"Clara, I am not..." He could not finish.

She walked to the bed and sat. He followed.

"I am not a young man," he said, quickly.

"I am well aware of this," she replied.

"So my body--"

She placed a finger on his lips to quiet him. 

"I am attracted to who you are."

He shook his head. "Personality has nothing to do with sex."

"Like hell it doesn't. I wouldn't want to sleep with you if you were a Tory, or a slum lord, or only read books about fishing, or were snobbish and belittling. I wouldn't be attracted to that at all."

"That is the reasons why a person chooses to spend time with someone. But with physical relations it invariably comes down to physical appearance." 

"Granted, I haven't seen all of your body, but from what I can tell"-- she motioned with her eyes to the tent in his trousers-- "I will be vastly rewarded."

"There's not just that," he said, with a lecturing gaze. 

"You have no idea," she began, sitting herself sideways on his lap, he instantly putting his arms around her waist to prevent her from falling, "how much I am turned on by your appearance," she said softly, unbuttoning one, two, three buttons in the middle of his shirt. He was not wearing an undershirt and with only two more buttons left to unbutton most of his chest was exposed. Without hesitation she placed her hand on his chest, broad and smooth, tantalising. No, not overtly muscular but toned nonetheless and more alluring to her than she could adequately express in words. So instead of using words she kissed him, on his clavicle -- angular and prominent due to his thin frame. She left kisses on his throat as he had done for her, finally savouring that area she had so admired earlier. How could she tell him so he would believe her that looking at his body, such as his neck with the many furrows denoting his age, -- providing him a more interesting, more substantial, character than the smoothness, the blankness (as of a barely painted canvas) on a person much younger than him -- drove her wild with desire?

"Clara," he said hoarsely as she travelled to his jaw, bristly with a few days worth of growth, "I think we should talk." But this time she did not listen to him. Breaking away from him she unbuttoned the last two buttons on his shirt, working next on the button she had tried earlier on his pants, except this time he did not stop her, and when she put her finger on the top of the zipper she looked up at him to ascertain whether he really wished to deny her action and although he looked her straight in the eye he did not say a thing. She lowered the zipper, carefully, slowly, aware of his current delicate situation, all the while keeping her gaze on his eyes, watching them as they transformed from keen awareness to half-hooded and wanting.

"Will you take your trousers off, please?" she asked, so innocently, like a child requesting an ice cream.

Well, how could he deny her when she asked so nicely?

So he rose and lowered them, shedding them one pant leg at a time. She had not divested him of his shirt. Although she wanted him fully naked she had to admit that the sight of him -- just a peek of his chest between a crisp white collared shirt of whose length extended to his upper thigh -- was a very delicious sight; so very manly, authoritative, teacher-y. Made now even more delectable in sight of his tight-fitted red briefs and what was then straining against them. He let her look, or hadn't yet decided what to do next; whichever was true, she stood viewing him while he watched her face undergo a series of contortions denoting how well she liked what she saw. 

"Are you cold?" he asked a minute later. "It seems as though you are." 

Although she was cold she wasn't shaking or chattering her teeth. Perplexed, she watched him approach her and lower himself several inches and then she knew what he meant as with one hand he gathered her breast and put his mouth, hot and wet, around its straining tip. She placed her hand on his head for support which had the added benefit of allowing her to comb her fingers through his grey hair, now so much thicker than when she did this previously when he last had his mouth on her but somewhere infinitely sweeter. He switched to the other breast but kept his finger on the one he had just given attention to, circling the now wet nipple with his thumb while circling the other one with his tongue. 

And then he rose.

"Lay on the bed, sweetheart," he said softly. 

She did as she was told, but not before engaging in that independence he claimed he was in such favour. With her hands on either side of her waist she lowered -- slowly -- her black thong.

In response he raised one eye brow, his face otherwise a portrait of complete unread-ability, only his eyes lowered, displaying a hunger that was at once calm and ferocious. She doubted she would ever not be aroused and surprised by his eyes as they looked now. In all her years of dating men, watching romantic movies, viewing the occasional pornography, she had never seen a man's eyes look quite so intensely, tantalisingly seductive. 

His eyes were made for sex. 

They followed her as she laid down and then looked her up and down as she lay, on her back, her legs together but herself exposed nonetheless. She didn't bother to cover herself with the blanket underneath her. He sat on the bed next to her and with one hand touched her cheek, then her neck, travelling next to her chest where he circled around her breasts, cupping the one and then the other, rubbing his thumb across the rosy tips, before placing his hand over her belly and then, after the barest of hesitation, moving just below her belly, his fingers gliding gently over that part of herself -- with her legs closed -- that was exposed, lingering there, motioning back and forth, his thumb strumming over her clit as he watched himself do it. She moaned softly and when he moved his gaze to her face he saw her eyes were closed, her face a specimen of complete contentment.

He kept his hand in place, massaging her, as he climbed on the bed, placing his legs on either side of her, towering over her. He removed his hand just before lowering himself on her so the pleasure he had been giving her with his fingers was quickly replaced by himself. She sucked in a breath at feeling him against her, especially the particular part of himself that she most wanted against her. He kissed her then and she kissed him back, placing her arms around him, feeling his shirt, the fabric cool, a delicious contrast from the heat of his chest that was pressed against her bare skin where her breasts were smashed against him, her nipples chafing as she moved, the sensation painfully pleasurable. She rubbed her foot up and down his bare leg as a prelude to what she really wanted to do which she did a moment later, raising both her legs to wound round his waist to bring him even more against her core than he already was. The result was more than she could have asked for, as her moving herself against him made him, sucking in his breath, grind down against her, which then, on a moan, prompted her to do the same again, until they were both, in unison, grinding against one another, the movements of their mouths becoming now as frenzied as the movements of their hips.

His fingers threaded through her hair, his hand cradling the back of her head to pull her closer to him as though being on top of her, pushing himself against her, was not enough. And she savoured the feeling, both the literal feeling of his mouth, hot and insistent against her own, but the feeling that he wanted -- needed -- to be as near to her as was humanly possible. Knowing this and with his hardness crashing into her core she could feel her pleasure mounting. From the corner of her eyes she saw his hips gyrate up and down, so rhythmically beautiful, and she knew then that she didn't want to come just yet, that she did want to come with him moving so beautifully against her but with him inside of her, filling her up.

With this in mind, she moved her hands to around the top of his briefs, placing a finger inside the band, and just as she was to lower it he removed his lips from her and, mere inches from her mouth, breathing hot breaths against her, he said, "Clara, I can't go any further."

Still moving her hips against him, her legs wrapped around his waist, she said, pleading, "Please, no, you can't stop now." 

"I don't have anything," he said, placing his forehead against her, visibly disappointed. 

"What do you mean?"

"To protect you." And then she understood.

"You mean condoms?" 

He nodded against her and then kissed her forehead. 

"I'm sorry," he said.

And then she laughed, softly, smiling, her dimples displayed for him to see. He gave her a quizzical brow as she placed her hands on either side of his face. 

"Silly, Doctor. We don't need condoms. I'm on birth control. Have been since I turned 16. And I also had an STI/STD check after my last sexual encounter so I'm completely fine. So long as you are OK in that area we should be good to go." 

She captured his lips with her own and they kissed softly as she made to relieve him of his shirt which he helped her in doing. His shirt gone all that remained was his briefs which, when Clara looked down at them, she saw were dotted with quarter sized stains of pre-come. That was the wetness she had felt against her belly.

"Can I touch them please?" she asked, knowing that he was watching her looking at him there and for what reason.

He nodded barely perceptively, as though a part of him was fearful of such an erotic act. 

She seemed to feel the same way as she only tentatively touched him although upon feeling the wetness that had seeped through his briefs her brow wrinkled with arousal and her breaths became short and laboured. 

Seeing her reaction and feeling her small fingers against him, even if lightly, his own breath began to speed up. Then he remembered what she had said to him.

"When was, if you don't mind me asking, your last sexual encounter?"

"With Danny," she said softly, removing her hand. "I haven't been with anyone since I've come to London." 

"Danny," he said, with some spite. "How long were you two together?"

"Two years."

"Two years...that's a bit of a long time."

He knew he shouldn't care. He had been with other people, probably more than her considering how much older he was, but it rankled him that others had been with her, had touched her in her intimate places, enjoyed her body, entered her, had made her moan, had watched her face transform when she came. What's more, he had met one of those men, a person who had ultimately hurt her. This led him to wonder how Danny treated her when he made love to her -- if he was selfless and kind or if he took what he could get without care for her own pleasure. 

With that in mind he asked, as he left soft kisses on her cheek, "Was he good to you? I mean, when it came to this?" 

She did not immediately answer, instead placing her hands on his back, her fingers running up and down it, her short nails leaving a pleasurable sensation behind.

"He was," she said, so softly he could barely hear it.

"That doesn't sound very convincing." And he tilted her chin to make her look up at him, seeing that her eyes were half-filled with tears. 

"He was never cruel." 

"But he wasn't terribly kind," he supplied. 

She looked down now, embarrassed. 

"He was not very attentive, but he never forced me, he was never too rough." 

"Never too rough," he echoed, a sadness in his voice.

He lowered himself to kiss her, so softly, his hand cradling her cheek, and she gathered him against her, her arms crossed against his back as far as they could go. His arm gathered around her shoulder and as he kissed her he caressed her there, the other hand threaded through her hair, his thumb massaging her temple. And then their legs were entwined again, their breathing more pronounced, both lightly moaning, and after some time Clara had her hands on the band of his briefs again and this time he allowed her to lower them, even raising himself so she could more easily take them off him. As he recaptured her mouth and she noticed he had his eyes closed she looked down to see him -- she did not want him to be embarrassed by her wish to see him -- and without meaning to, without knowing she would, the sight of him made her moan so deeply she could feel it tremble through her throat as it was muffled by his mouth on hers.

He was so beautiful. 

She kissed him deeply, her tongue lapping over his, waiting for him to respond the same, waiting for him to lose himself completely, and when she was certain he had -- he had taken over the lead, his mouth crashing into hers, the depth and ferocity of their kiss entirely dependent on his instruction -- she took him in hand, at once moving her hand up and down his length. He broke his kiss from her, overcome at the sensation of her hand on him, only keeping his lips resting on hers. She massaged the head of him, gathering the pre-come, spreading it along the length of him before continuing her ministrations up and down. 

"Oh God, Clara," he said against her lips. "It's too much. Your hand on me. It feels so good." 

She smiled at herself -- he looked lovely so overcome, his face strained in vexed pleasure. She kissed him lightly even though she knew he could not reciprocate, although he tried, returning her kisses but with less frequency. 

And now, with him so completely gone, and her hand still on his length, she lined him up against her entrance, so he was aware exactly of what she wanted.

She did not, however, move. She kept her hand on him, waiting for him, leaving it up to him to lead, to do what he wished, hoping, as the desire pooled within her, that he would choose what she so very much desired. But he did not immediately act and just as she thought that perhaps he would retreat after all he pressed his lips against her ear and whispered, slowly, hoarsely, his Scottish accent more deep than she'd ever heard it: 

"We'll have to be quiet."

A shiver ran through her.

She had forgotten entirely about Amy and Rory, across the hall, but not, in this small house with its paper thin walls, a considerable distance away.

Leaving a kiss on her forehead he looked her into her eyes as he moved his hips an inch, only just entering her. She exhaled dramatically, her back arching, her brow ruffled -- but despite her evident torment he did not continue moving. It was only when she opened her eyes to look into his and saw they were now as they had been before -- dark and teasing and seductive -- that he moved again another inch, entering her more fully, spreading her open. Again, she closed her eyes and arched her back in torturous pleasure and again he did not move farther, again he forced her to look at him. When she did she saw that this time _his_ brow was ruffled and that his eyes were not just teasing and dark but also half-hooded in unadulterated pleasure. He moved again, twice the distance of the first two times combined, almost, but not completely, entering her, a low moan escaping him this time. The need she had to feel him filling her completely prompted her to move this time, just the extra inch that was needed so that he was now entirely within her. 

They stayed as they were, him hard inside her, she luxuriating in the feel of him spreading her wide, his length and especially his width larger than she had had before. 

"Are you all right?" he asked her, as if he had read her mind. 

"Oh, yes," she responded satisfyingly.

Her response was all he needed. Almost instantly he moved slowly away from her to then, just before he would leave her, move back into her, now a bit quicker and oh so deeply. Clara's moan when he re-entered her was low and half-strangled as though she were powerless to even voice her pleasure so intense was it. He covered her mouth with his and continued his movements, preciously slow, in and out of her, as he kissed her just as slowly. She followed his lead and soon their arms and legs were wrapped around each others bodies, only their hips moving up and down in synchronicity. He felt her walls clench around his length, radiating more pleasure through him than he was already feeling moving in and out of her tight core that was so very soft and so very wet.

Now he couldn't sustain the slow tempo, he had to have more of her, and confident that she was now able to handle him, he incrementally increased his pace, moving just a bit faster each time he entered her. She expressed her approval of this, matching his pace every time he increased it, her moans and mews following the same trajectory until, along with him, they were unable to even kiss, instead remained moaning deeply against one another's mouth, as their hips gyrated faster and faster, crashing their bodies against one another. The headboard hit the wall violently, the old-fashioned bed creaked, and they were both moaning so loud that he was sure Amy and Rory could hear them, if not the neighbors the next house over. 

He decided then to momentarily slow his pace, both as an effort to quiet them but also to prolong their pleasure. Moving his mouth to her neck, he sucked there lightly, then skimmed his teeth over her skin, before laving it with his tongue where he bit. He did this again and again, every time he did Clara pushing him closer to her with her hand in his hair. The pace of his entering and withdrawing from her was slower but deliberate now that the angle he was on, while kissing her neck, caused his hip to hit her clit, and every time he entered her and just as he reached the hilt of her he lingered there so that she would derive the most pleasure both from the feel of him hitting her sensitive spot and him so completely filling her. 

But she was pleading with him, her mouth near his ear, pleading with him to increase his pace. 

"Please, Doctor, please I need more, I need you," sounding as though she were close to tears.

"You want me to go faster?" he asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear her say it. 

"Yes, please."

"How much do you want me to, Clara?" he asked, minutely increasing his pace for her. 

"So much, so very much."

He kissed her deeply. 

"We have to be quiet." 

"No we don't," she said, sounding like a petulant child.

"Yes, we do Clara," he said, his voice an octave lower. "We can't let them hear us." 

"But I need you..." 

"Need me to what?"

"Move quicker." 

"Like this," he again increased his pace, the bed board lightly hitting the wall. 

"Oh, yes." She was completely enraptured.

It was then -- why at this point, not earlier, he did not know -- that it hit him so astonishingly completely that he was making love to her. Clara, _his_ Clara, who was kind, and funny, and so very beautiful -- as he looked down at her body, as he watched himself move in and out of her.

And then he did not care if they made noise, if Amy and Rory could hear them, that the sound of the bed creaking and the back board violently hitting the wall and their uninhibited moans of pleasure made it so clear that he was fucking her, because at that moment all he wanted was to watch himself make love to her, to hear Clara's cries of pleasure, to make her come apart in his arms. As his own pleasure increased, so he increased their pace, faster than it had ever been. He moved his body half an inch so as to hit her clit, what he knew she needed, and she moaned against him, louder and louder -- "yes, oh yes, Doctor, oh yes" -- as he too moaned against her, holding her so very close, until their moans turned to cries and he felt the walls inside her contract around him, pulsating around him even as he vigorously moved his length against them, and on the final contraction, the strongest yet, and while he watched, as on a final cry her pleasure came over her, he stilled and with a deeply satisfied groan spilled inside her.

As she came down from her pleasure she felt his come fill her, hot and satisfying. He did not withdraw himself from inside her but remained while resting his head in the crook of her neck so that his body crushed against her. He was careful, however, to not place all his weight on her, not that she would have minded if he had; she liked feeling the weight of his body pressed against her, as if, in her thoroughly satiated, weak state, she were a wounded animal he was keeping safe from those who would harm her.

She was half the way to sleep when he moved, rousing her back to consciousness.

"I'm going to have to move."

"Hmmm mmm," she murmured.

"And, well, there's no delicate way to put this..." 

"What?" she asked, wondering at his hesitation.

"Well, you know how in the movies people make love and then instantly fall asleep, no problems, no fuss?"

"Yeah..."

"Real life is not the movies."

She followed his gaze to where he was looking at himself still inside her and instantly she knew of what he was alluding. 

"Oh," she said. 

"Let me take care of it." 

She nodded her head, but was smiling. 

"What?" he asked, all seriousness.

"This is just so embbarrasing," she giggled, shielding her eyes with her hands, her face bright red. 

"Sweetheart, I just fucked the living daylights out of you. I think we can handle this." At once she removed her hands at hearing him say that he had fucked her, feeling turned on all over again. She wouldn't tell him, but she wanted to hear him say he was fucking her, but while he was doing it.

In her distracted state she did not immediately realise that he was moving, slowly, out of her. She lamented the loss of him, what had been the delicious feeling of him inside her, filling her up. She looked down to see just the tip of him remained within her, the rest of him still hard and thick in his hand. With his other hand resting under her opening he completely withdrew, the white thick liquid trickling out of her, into his waiting hand, where it gathered full and plentiful. 

"Don't move, dear," he said, softly, moving off the bed to cross the room. With his free hand he took copious amounts of tissues from the Kleenex box resting on the dresser, scooping up his come into the bundle of tissues, then carefully placed the tissues in the covered wastebasket near the door. He brought the remaining tissues with him as he moved toward her. He hesitated, she saw, but then, his eyes darker, he made a choice. He grabbed the half-full bottle of water resting on the bedside table, dousing the tissues with the lukewarm water.

"Will you recline for me?" he asked and she, thinking she knew his intentions, did as she was told. 

He sat on the bed. 

"Spread your legs wider, darling." 

He took the soaking wet tissues and moved them over her inner thighs, where, despite his best effort, some of his come had drizzled down to rest. He cleaned her there and then moved farther inward, delicately rubbing the tissues over her now engorged lips, careful to not push too hard against her overly sensitive nub. Finally, he moved below where there was the smallest amount of clear liquid still dribbling out, marvelling as he did that he had been inside her, there, where the entrance to her was now so small and delicate looking.

He did not linger over her too long however. Only as much as was needful to ascertain that he had completed his task. And then he gathered the rumpled blanket next to her and draped it over her naked body, pulling it all the way up to her neck as he realized, himself still naked as well, that it had grown quite chilly in the room. He put on his clothes as she pretended to not watch him where he was half-way turned from her, suddenly modest once more. 

"Do you mind if I wash up?" he asked, sitting beside her on the bed. 

"Not at all." 

"I'll be back soon. Put some French telly on," he said, gathering the remote that he had previously thrown across the room. He handed her the remote, kissing her quickly on the forehead as he did.

He came back some time later to the telly on and Clara, still snuggled under the blanket, fast asleep, her hair mussed up in a not at all disagreeable fashion, her mouth slightly open, no evident worry marring her features: so very innocent looking. That faithful anxiety that had lain dormant the last few hours resurfaced. He didn't deserve her, it was saying. She's too nice, too sweet, too perfect. And yet he desired her, more than he had anyone for a long time, more than he'd possibly ever desired anyone. But at the same time that he acknowledged that he didn't want to lose her, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her by his side -- making her laugh, listening to her thoughts and feelings on every subject under the sun -- he also wanted her to have the best life she could possibly have, and no matter how much he tried to justify his keeping her close to him he would always believe that he was not the perfect life she could, and deserved, to have. 

He pulled the covers back slowly and tried as best he could to climb under them without making too much movement so that he would not wake her. He wanted also to turn off the telly but she had the remote clutched in her hand and when he tried to take it from her she opened her eyes, slowly.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep," she said, penitently. 

"It's fine. You're all tuckered out. You haven't been sleeping well."

"No, I haven't. Not without you." 

She looked sad, so he left one kiss on her lips and then one on her forehead, and when he looked back at her she was positively gleaming. 

"There's that smile," he said. 

And then he decided that just for this weekend he would set aside his anxious thoughts, his practical scruples, and just do as he wished. And there was nothing more he wished to do in the world right then than spend every waking moment with Clara, making her laugh and smile, holding her in his arms, and feeling this contentment that he had when he was with her and which he didn't think he had ever really experienced before her. 

"Are you ready for sleep?" he asked, turning off the television.

"Oh, yes, please."

He opened his arms for her and she dove into them and, with a few wiggles of her bottom (which made him laugh despite himself and for which she teasingly hit him on his shoulder for doing), she snuggled herself against him. 

"I've been waiting for this all day," she sighed against his chest. 

So had he.


	14. Forgotten

There was wetness on her face. Something licking her? She opened her sleepy eyes and saw the culprit -- little, orange and emitting a stunted 'meow.'

"Awww, how cute," Clara exclaimed, petting the cat -- for cat of course it was -- that nuzzled its furry head against her arm.

The Doctor, laying behind her, his arm wrapped around her middle, stirred and then rose just the little bit that was needed to see to whom Clara was speaking. 

"Argh, who let a cat in here?!" he exclaimed.

"He's adorable!" she answered enthusiastically.

"Meh."

"Are you kidding me, he is the most adorable thing ever."

The Doctor laid back down and wound his arm back around her waist. "Not as adorable as you." 

Clara turned around and nuzzled herself -- like a cat -- against his chest. "Good answer," she smiled.

"Only because it's true," he whispered. 

The orange tabby jumped into the small space between them and, realising that they had both gone back to sleep, curled himself up into a ball. He had just woken from a long nights sleep but he could doze for a few more hours. He was a cat after all. 

Clara woke again to a banging sound as if a door had been opened too quickly. When now she woke she once again saw orange hair, but this was not the hair of a cat but of a human, specifically a human that was holding her two hands against her mouth in an effort to stifle surprise. 

"Oh my goodness, well, this is, OK then," was all Amy could say. 

The Doctor stirred behind her and upon seeing their visitor raised the blanket half an inch to cover Clara's bare shoulders. 

"Amy, I have come to expect you to barge into my office at work but not in my bedroom where you cannot be sure if I am dressed."

"Apparently," Amy responded, a smile on her face.

He raised an eye brow at her.

She cleared her throat. 

"Well, I was wondering if you two intended on getting up sometime today. It is our only full day in Paris. And Gwen and Jack are coming over in half an hour for breakfast before Gwen catches her plane for Wales."

Clara assured her they would rise and get dressed quickly which they did -- this time without either one of them turning around while the other was _deshabille_.

"If this means I'll never have to see Jack again, then I'm all for it," he said to Clara once they were ready.

"Oh Doctor, always so moody."

"Besides," he began, his voice still deep from sleep, "I have more interesting ideas about how to spend the day." He pulled her against him and looked at her with those hooded eyes before kissing her deeply, passionately, with not even an ounce of restraint. What a difference a day made! When finally he pulled away from her she said, "We better get this breakfast over quickly."

"My thought exactly."

When they entered the kitchen Jack and Gwen were already there holding champagne glasses filled with orange juice. After several minutes of small talk the Doctor walked away to gather some fruit that was laid out on the dining room table. Jack followed him. 

"So, how much do you hate me after last night?"

"Beg your pardon?" the Doctor responded.

"I know that if anyone had flirted with my boyfrend Ianto the way I flirted with Clara I would have been furious." 

"You have a boyfriend?"

"Yes, and not just a boyfriend, the love of my life."

The Doctor looked down, bashful at hearing, not only through words, but in his voice, how much affection Jack held for his partner.

"Then why," he asked, once recovering himself, "were you flirting with Clara?"

Jack, popping a grape in his mouth, said, simply, "Amy." 

"Ah." 

"Believe me, it wasn't easy. Clara is a beautiful girl and at one time I would have been interested -- but I have never been able to resist a silver fox." 

At that, the Doctors eyes eye brows lifted and Jack, with a wink, strolled away from him.

"So I was trying to find out last night but Gwen wasn't very forthcoming. What is it that she does for a living?" 

Clara and Amy were in the opposite corner of the room by themselves.

"I can't say, I'm afraid," Amy responded. "It's all very secret."

"And she told _you_?" Clara replied, not even trying to hide her incredulity.

"Yes, she did," Amy said defensively, but then, "Mind you, I can see why you would be surprised. But she trusts me. For some reason. I've never asked her why. I should probably do that."

"Does she work for MI:5 or something? Oh, sorry, I know you can't say, but of course now I'm more curious than ever."

"Let's just say," Amy responded, moving in closer to her, "that there are things in this world that you don't know about -- aren't even aware of -- and don't want to know. I'm quite sure Gwen hasn't told me too much of what she does but what I do know...sometimes I wish I didn't."

"OK, now I'm completely confused."

"Good, it means that I haven't given anything away."

"Oh, Amy, sometimes I wonder about your sanity."

Putting her arm through Clara's she said, "As do I, as do I." 

"I have to be off," Gwen said, putting down her champagne glass just as Clara and Amy re-entered the room.

She hugged Jack and Amy and Rory, spending more with the latter. Upon detaching herself from him she pinched his cheeks. "Too cute for words!" Amy laughed but then kissed the now sour-looking Rory on his abused cheek.

Upon reaching the Doctor, Gwen said, "I wish I had had some time to converse with you, Doctor. You seem like an interesting person." She shook his hand and as she did he had a moment of realisation, a flash of an image which, once it appeared, just as quickly vanished, leaving him at once bereft with only a feeling of overwhelming recognition left in its place.

"Deja vu," he said without meaning to.

"Interesting how that happens sometimes," Gwen said, the softest smile on her lips as she turned to walk away.

"I don't believe in it," he shouted back, but she had already left.

♥♥ 

When Clara returned to their bedroom the Doctor was on the phone. He looked at her cautiously before saying a soft "Merci" and hanging up.

"You know you don't have to speak French to people back home just because you're in Paris."

"I wasn't talking to someone from England."

"Scotland?" she queried.

" _Non_."

"Hmmm, curiouser and curiouser. I suppose you are not going to tell me who you were speaking with?"

"Not yet, no." 

"Very secretive. What a weird day we've had so far," she said, thinking about what Amy had 'not' told her about Gwen's job. But she supposed she shouldn't speak to the Doctor about that.

"What was that deja vu thing about earlier?" she asked, instead.

"Deja vu," he said, shrugging. "I suddenly felt as if I recognized something familiar, something that I had felt before but not in a long time -- that has been shielded from me, buried somewhere deep -- some sort of 'all knowing.' You know how sometimes you think, for a moment, that just on the tip of your mind is the knowledge you need to understand the whole of the cosmos -- why we are here, what it's all for -- but just as you are about to be overwhelmed with the knowledge of it it disappears, and when you try to summon up that feeling again you can't, as if it has been tucked away again, hidden in some deep recess of your consciousness." He paused, his brow furrowed in contemplation and then, sitting, said, "Just a way for your mind to make you believe in science fiction-y stuff."

"You don't believe in deja vu or the supernatural?"

"No, in fact I don't even like Science Fiction as a genre, books or movies. I'm more of a Jane Austen, Dickens, poetry kind of guy."

"Ugh, poetry, I could never get into poetry. I can spend every waking hour reading Victorian literature but one piece of prose and I'm dead asleep. I suppose now, knowing this, you'll want nothing to do with me," she said, fitting a Parisian scarf around her neck with a glint of amusement in her eye.

"That's not too great a misdeed. Besides, if it were a contest between which of us will find fault in the other, I'm sure you'll be the first to find cause to no longer want to be around me."

"That I am sure is not true," she said, now in earnest.

"If you forget me -- I want you to know one thing..." 

"I don't think I could ever forget you," she responded, but he only smiled and continued:

_"You know how this is:_

_if I look_

_at the crystal moon, at the red branch_

_of the slow autumn at my window,_

_if I touch_

_near the fire_

_the impalpable ash_

_or the wrinkled body of the log,_

_everything carries me to you,_

_as if everything that exists,_

_aromas, light, metals,_

_were little boats_

_that sail_

_toward those isles of yours that wait for me."_

He rose and stood in front of her, brushing aside a strand of hair from her eyes, tucking it behind her ear.

_"Well, now,_

_if little by little you stop loving me_

_I shall stop loving you little by little._

_If suddenly_

_you forget me_

_do not look for me,_

_for I shall already have forgotten you._

_If you think it long and mad,_

_the wind of banners_

_that passes through my life,_

_and you decide_

_to leave me at the shore_

_of the heart where I have roots,_

_remember_

_that on that day,_

_at that hour,_

_I shall lift my arms_

_and my roots will set off_

_to seek another land._

_But_

_if each day,_

_each hour,_

_you feel that you are destined for me_

_with implacable sweetness,_

_if each day a flower_

_climbs up to your lips to seek me,"_

\-- lightly brushing his thumb over her lips --

_ah my love, ah my own,_

_in me all that fire is repeated,_

_in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,_

_my love feeds on your love, beloved,_

_and as long as you live it will be in your arms_

_without leaving mine."_

She stood and looked up at him as he, with tender eyes, watched her reaction and as if both were in sync he opened his arms the same moment she moved forward to be enveloped by them. 

"I think I like poetry now," she mumbled against his chest. She felt before she heard the rumble of his laugh. "Did you write that?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't write something that beautiful. Pablo Neruda wrote that." 

"Pablo Neruda, I've heard his name. I will certainly be looking into him."

"I have a book of his poetry. I can lend it to you when we get back to London."

At the mention of London she recoiled, moving away from him, as she thought about what her life would be once she returned home, back in her apartment with a roommate she didn't have anything in common with, in a space that no longer felt like home -- had never felt like home, if she were honest -- and although now secure in the thought of her safety she was without, however, the certainty that the man before her with whom she had developed a growing affection would want to be in her life. 

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She nodded her head. "I was just thinking of London."

"You feel safe there, right? I doubt Danny will attempt to get near you now and if he does you have the law on your side."

"I do feel safe. I just..."

"What?" 

"I don't know what my life is going to be once I get back to London."

"But you're not worried about Danny?"

"No." She smiled to reassure him.

"Then your life in London can be whatever you wish it."

"Will..."

"Yes?" he asked, moving closer to her.

"Will you want to spend time with me when we get back?"

"Spend time with you? Well, let me see. I haven't really thought about it...I guess I could find some time. I'll have to check my schedule." 

She realised that he was teasing her. "Hey, no fair, I'm trying to be serious here." 

"I'll have time for you, Clara," he said, taking her hand and kissing it gently. "As long as you want to spend time with me I'll be here." 

"Want to spend time with you? You silly man. It is you, I fear, who will not want to be with me." 

With a hand beneath her chin he made her look at him. "Don't be melancholy. That's my job."

He smiled at her, displaying those indentations beside his eyes that she found so interesting, and she smiled back, for real this time. 

"Do you want to go somewhere?" he asked. "Amy and Rory have already left and while I admit the idea of staying with you here," without meaning to he glanced at the bed behind them, "is quite tempting, I do think since this is our last full day in Paris we should go out for a little while." 

"Yes, let's. We shall have plenty of time later for...other ventures." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: all the fluff!


End file.
